^^r-.^i;-<:'.  ^■&i<«l 


V  i\  yLt> 


/y-  ^2. 


JOHNA.SEAVERNS 


TUFTS   UNIVERSITY   LIBRARIES 


3  9090  013  420  175 


IS  Schooi  of  Veterinary  Medicine  at 


Webster  Family  Library  of  Veterinary  Medicine 
Gumming^ 
Tutts  University 
200  Westboro  Road 


TALES 

OF  THE 

TURF 


By 

HUGH  S.  FULLERTON 


A.  R.  DE  BEER 

PUBUSHER 

New  York  City 


Copyright,  1922 

by 

A.  R.  DE  BEER 


All  Rights  Reserved 


FOREWORD 

T^HE  publisher  feels  highly  honored  at  being 
-*■  able,  at  this  time,  to  present  to  the  American 
public,  from  the  pen  of  America's  foremost 
sports-writer  and  recognized  authority,  Hugh  S. 
Fullerton,  these  stories  of  the  American  Turf, 
feeling  sanguine  that  these  tales,  saturated  with 
human  interest,  will  be  digested  with  as  much 
pleasure  and  delight  as  the  author  took  in  writ- 
ing and  the  publisher  in  publishing  them. 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

ALL  men  love  a  horse  who  know  a  horse.  The 
love  of  contest  and  struggle  forms  a  kinship 
between  man  and  horse  that  exists  between  no 
others.  It  is  the  gameness,  the  courage,  the 
fighting  spirit  of  the  thoroughbred  which 
arouses  in  man  the  finest  instincts,  and  it  is  these 
qualities  that  cause  the  love  of  man  for  the 
thoroughbred.  It  is  noticeable  too,  that  the 
thoroughbred  horse  loves  only  those  human 
beings  who  possess  those  same  qualities. 

On  the  race-track  we  find  the  only  pure 
democracy  of  the  world,  a  democracy  which 
includes  all  classes,  all  strata  of  society.  It  is 
more  liberal,  more  forgiving  of  human  frailties 
and  human  weakness,  than  any  other  place,  be- 
cause men  who  know  racing  understand  how 
hearts  break  when  the  weight  cloths  are  too 
heavy  and  the  distance  too  great. 

These  little  tales  of  the  turf  are  based  upon 
real  incidents  and  real  characters.  Perhaps 
those  lovers  of  racing  who  have  lived  the  life 
will  recognize  the  characters,  and  to  those  I 
would  plead  that  they  extend  to  them  the  same 
broad  understanding  and  forgiveness  that  they 
give  to  the  tout,  the  cadger,  and  the  down  and 

outer  in  real  life. 

The  Author 


€o  iinorbitli 


SON  OF 

RUNNYMEAD  AND  HYMIR 

who  has  demonstrated  to  the  world 
that  handicaps  of  birth  and  breeding 
are  not  insurmountable — that  the  off- 
spring of  a  sprinter  can  carry  weight 
over  a  distance  if  he  has  the  heart, 
that  neither  straight  stifles,  weight 
cloths  nor  distance  counts  against 
gameness  and  courage — this  little  vol- 
ume is  dedicated,        THE  AUTHOR. 


''HARDSHELL"  GAINES 


"Hardshell"  Gaines  was  the  only  name  we 
knew  him  by,  although  had  anyone  been  suffi- 
ciently interested  to  look  through  the  list  of  reg- 
istered owners  of  race-horses,  he  would  have 
learned  that  Hardshell  had  been  christened 
James  Buchanan  Gaines.  The  name  might  also 
have  furnished  a  clue  as  to  his  age. 

Tradition  was  that  he  came  from  somewhere 
in  Pennsylvania,  as  he  spoke  sometimes  of  the 
horses  * '  up  the  valley ' ' ;  but  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  had  a  farm  in  Tennessee,  where  he  bred  and 
trained  the  horses  he  raced,  nothing  was  set 
down  in  the  * '  Who 's  Who ' '  of  the  turf.  He  was 
called  Hardshell  because  he  had  once  explained 
the  difference  between  the  Hardshell  Baptists, 
to  which  denomination  he  belonged,  and  the 
Washfoots. 

He  was  an  old  man,  thin  and  poorly  dressed 
in  baggy  garments  which  carried  the  odor  of 
horses  and  were  covered  with  horse  hairs.  He 
loved  horses,  lived  with  them  and  for  them  and 
by  them.  In  those  days  he  emerged  from  his 
hibernation  on  the  Tennessee  farm  when  racing 
started  at  New  Orleans  and  moved  northward 
to  Memphis,  Louisville,  Cincinnati,  St.  Louis, 
and  Chicago,  and  in  the  fall  he  retraced  the 
route  and  disappeared.     He  usually  could  be 

7 


8  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

found  working  "with,  some  horse  and  humming 
an  old  hymn,  and  occasionally,  when  forgetful, 
he  sang  hymns  aloud  while  brushing  the  horses. 

He  was  honest,  which  fact  set  him  apart  from 
the  majority  of  the  persons  who  follow  horse- 
racing.  According  to  the  unwritten  law  of  the 
turf,  it  was  all  right  for  a  millionaire  to  race 
horses  for  sport  and  the  purses,  but  a  poor  man 
was  expected  to  do  the  best  he  could,  dodge  the 
feed  man's  bill  when  possible,  get  a  shade  the 
best  of  the  odds,  keep  under  cover  the  fact  that 
one  of  his  horses  was  fit  for  a  race  until  the  odds 
were  right,  and,  if  possible,  sell  one  or  two  colt3 
to  the  wealthy  owners  at  a  fancy  price  to  even 
the  losses  on  the  season. 

Hardshell  Gaines  violated  all  these  rules.  He 
was  poor.  He  bred  and  raced  horses  because 
he  loved  them  and  loved  the  sport.  He  wagered 
two  dollars  on  each  horse  he  entered  in  a  race, 
never  more  or  less.  He  depended  upon  winning 
purses  to  meet  expenses,  and  he  refused  to  sell 
his  best  colts  at  any  price.  Each  year  he  emerged 
from  Tennessee  with  three  or  four  fair  selling- 
platers,  a  string  of  two-year-olds  from  which  he 
hoped  to  develop  a  champion,  and  Sword  of 
Gideon,  better  known  as  Swored  at  Gideon,  his 
alleged  stake  horse  and  the  pride  of  the  Big 
Bend  stables. 

Some  of  the  race  followers  believed  Hardshell 
to  be  rich.  The  suspicious  ones  (and  suspicion 
has  its  breeding  place  on  race-tracks)  thought 
the  old  man  laid  big  bets  through  secret  agents 
whenever  he  was  ready  to  win  a  race.  When, 
at  not  too  frequent  intervals,  one  of  his  horses 
won,  the  wise  ones  nodded  and  whispered  that 
old  Hardshell  had  made  another  killing.    Others 


'* HARDSHELL''    GAINES  9 

of  us  who  knew  how  many  of  the  purses  offered 
in  selling  races  must  be  won  to  feed,  care  for, 
and  transport  eighteen  or  twenty  horses,  esti- 
mated his  financial  rating  more  closely.  I  knew 
there  were  times  when  second  or  third  money  in 
cheap  races  was  welcome  to  help  pay  feed  bills 
and  jockey  fees,  and  that  in  several  lean  times 
colts  had  disappeared  from  the  Big  Bend  stables, 
having  been  sold  secretly  at  low  prices. 

No  one  ever  heard  Hardshell  complain.  His 
health  was  always  ** tollable, '*  his  horses  were 
always  ** tollable  fast,^'  his  luck  was  *'torable,*' 
and  after  replying  thus  to  inquiries  he  hummed 
a  hymn  and  went  away.  He  never  was  with  the 
crowd  of  owners  and  bookmakers  around  hotels 
or  restaurants,  but  lived  in  the  stables ;  and  when 
little  Pete,  the  diminutive  negro  jockey,  rode 
out  of  the  paddock,  Hardshell,  a  timothy  straw 
in  his  mouth  and  trousers  laced  into  the  tops  of 
disreputable  boots,  sauntered  into  the  betting 
ring,  went  to  the  stand  of  a  bookmaker  who  had 
been  his  friend  for  years,  wagered  two  dollars 
that  his  horse  would  win,  and,  without  looking 
to  see  what  the  odds  were,  went  down  to  the  rail 
to  root  for  his  horse. 

Few  knew  that  Hardshell  cherished  either  an 
ambition  or  an  enmity — but  he  did.  His  ambi- 
tion was  to  breed  and  train  a  champion  colt,  and 
the  object  of  his  hatred  was  Big  Jim  Long, 
gambler,  bookmaker,  sure  thing  man,  and  the 
head  of  the  Long  Investment  Company — and  the 
ambition  and  the  hatred  were  associated. 

Long  was  the  Long  Investment  Company  so 
far  as  advertising  and  general  knowledge  went, 
but  the  real  head  sat  at  a  desk  in  a  suite  of 
offices  in  the  lower  Broadway  district  in  New 


10  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

York,  and,  so  far  as  anj^one  knew,  never  had 
been  near  a  race-track.  Not  even  his  name  was 
to  be  found  in  connection  with  the  Long  Invest- 
ment Company.  All  letters,  remittances,  and 
transfers  from  branch  offices  were  addressed  to 
James  Long,  but  the  man  who  opened  them  was 
Thomas  J.  Kirtin,  whose  business,  according  to 
the  modest  lettering  on  the  door  of  the  back 
room,  which  opened  upon  an  entirely  different 
corridor  from  that  upon  which  the  Long  Invest- 
ment Company  fronted,  was  *' Investments." 

Kirtin 's  brain  had  evolved  the  idea  of  apply- 
ing the  all  Tontine  game  to  betting  upon  horse- 
races, and  he  had  organized  the  Long  Investment 
Company.  In  addition  to  the  promise  of  certain 
dividends,  the  company  added  the  appeal  to  the 
gambling  instinct  in  human  beings.  It  claimed 
that  the  reason  persons  who  bet  upon  horse-races 
fail  to  beat  the  bookmakers  is  that  the  book- 
makers have  the  preponderance  of  capital.  The 
small  bettor  could  not  withstand  a  run  of  losses 
and  the  gamblers  could.  It  proposed  to  turn  the 
tables :  all  bettors  were  to  pool  their  capital  with 
the  Long  Investment  Company,  which,  with  its 
elaborate  system  of  doping  horse-races,  its  exclu- 
sive sources  of  information  from  owners  and 
jockeys  who  were  *' interested, '*  and  its  perfect 
system  of  laying  bets  which  would  assure  in- 
vestors of  the  best  odds  on  each  race,  would  beat 
the  game.  Further,  it  was  not  as  if  a  bettor 
wagered  all  on  one  race ;  the  company  would  bet 
on  three,  four,  possibly  six,  races  a  day  on  dif- 
ferent tracks,  betting  only  on  inside  information, 
and  the  winnings  would  be  pooled  and  divided. 
One  hundred  per  cent  was  guaranteed,  and  more 
if  the  winnings  were  larger. 


^'HARDSHELL''    GAINES  11 

The  public  had  shied  at  the  proposition  at 
first.  Then  those  who  had  been  lured  by  golden 
promises  commenced  to  draw  ten,  fifteen,  even 
twenty-five,  per  cent  a  month  on  their  invest- 
ments. On  one  occasion  a  **  dividend '^  of  sev- 
enty per  cent  was  declared.  The  first  investors 
had  their  monev  back  and  still  were  credited 
with  the  original  investment.  The  news  was 
received  with  incredulity,  but  as  more  and 
greater  dividends  were  declared  hundreds  and 
then  thousands  had  flocked  to  invest.  Branch 
offices  of  the  company,  lavishly  furnished  and 
equipped  with  telegraph  and  telephone  commu- 
nications with  all  tracks,  were  established  in  a 
score  of  cities.  Money  poured  into  the  Long 
Investment  Company  by  tens  of  thousands,  then 
almost  by  millions.  Each  month  the  *' inves- 
tors" received  astonishing  dividends.  Some  per- 
haps knew  or  suspected  that  the  dividends  were 
being  paid  out  of  the  fresh  capital,  but,  being 
gamblers,  they  threw  their  money  into  the  gam- 
ble, betting  that  they  would  draw  out  their  prin- 
cipal and  more  before  the  bubble  burst. 

In  New  York,  Kirtin  waited,  watching  the 
expansion  of  the  bubble  and  timing  almost  to 
the  hour  when  the  crash  must  come.  In  his  safe 
nearly  fifty  per  cent  of  the  money  received, 
changed  into  bills  of  large  denominations,  was 
packed  in  cases,  and  in  his  desk  were  reserva- 
tions of  staterooms  on  every  vessel  departing  for 
Europe  in  the  next  fortnight.  The  bubble  had 
endured  longer  than  he  expected.  There  was 
more  than  a  million  dollars  packed  in  the  cases, 
and  more  than  that  amount  already  had  been 
transferred  and  deposited  in  various  European 
banks.     He  hesitated,  undecided  as  to  whether 


12  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

to  risk  anotlier  week  of  delay — and  decided  that 
the  time  had  come  to  reap  the  last  harvest  and 
permit  the  gleanings  to  remain. 

On  the  race-tracks  Big  Jim  Long  swaggered 
and  continued  his  role  as  head  of  the  company 
spending  thousands  and  talking  millions.  He 
was  a  huge  man,  with  a  huge  laugh,  a  round, 
ruddy  face  pink  from  much  massage.  He  wore 
clothing  of  striking  cut  and  colors,  and  his  dia- 
monds dazzled  the  eyes  of  jockeys  and  touts.  He 
maintained  an  air  of  condescending  familiarity 
with  some  and  patronizing  good  fellowship  with 
others,  and  he  treated  money  as  dross.  Judges, 
stewards,  and  club  officials  watched  Long  closely 
and  with  some  disappointment.  Rumors  that  he 
had  bribed  jockeys,  had  influenced  owners,  that 
he  had  fixed  races  and  engineered  great  killings, 
were  whispered  around  the  tracks,  yet  the  offi- 
cials could  not  discover  any  evidences  of  his 
guilt.  Big  Jim  made  no  denials  of  the  whis- 
pered accusations,  but  blatantly  defied  the  offi- 
cials to  ''get  anything  on  him."  Moreover,  the 
bookmakers,  who  watched  his  movements  even 
more  closely  than  the  racing  officials  did,  knew 
that  he  never  had  bet  any  large  sums  at  the 
track,  and  Big  Jim  had  sarcastically  inquired  if 
they  thought  him  a  fool  to  make  bets  for  the 
company  at  the  tracks,  where  the  odds  were 
made,  when  the  company  system  was  to  scatter 
the  bets  over  a  score  of  cities  and  get  better 
odds.  Such  bets  as  he  made  at  the  tracks  were 
for  his  own  account,  and  generally  he  lost,  so 
that  the  small  bettors  who  spied  upon  him,  hop- 
ing to  learn  which  horses  the  company  were 
backing,  suspected  that  he  bet  to  blind  them  to 
the  real  identity  of  the  horses  the  "killings'* 


t< 


HARDSHELL''   GAINES  13 


were  made  on.  They  believed  that  the  Long 
Investment  Company  was  winning  vast  sums. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Long  Investment  Com- 
pany did  not  bet  at  all.  Kirtin  did  not  believe 
in  gambling.  Yet,  oddly  enough.  Big  Jim  Long 
believed  firmly  and  unshakably  that,  if  he  had 
complete  control  of  the  finances  of  the  company, 
he  could  beat  the  races.  He  was  convinced 
that  with  the  capital  of  the  Long  Investment 
Company  he  could  corrupt  enough  jockeys  and 
owners  to  pay  dividends  legitimately  and  make 
a  fortune  for  himself.  Long  would  have  been 
an  easy  victim  of  the  game  which  he  was  helping 
perpetrate  upon  the  public.  Kirtin  had  no 
such  illusions.  Long  had  once  argued  the  point 
with  Kirtin  in  the  privacy  of  the  back  room  in 
New  York,  and  Kirtin  had  called  him  a  fool, 
with  variations,  prefix  and  addenda.  And,  as 
Kirtin  sent  him  five  thousand  dollars  a  week 
with  which  to  keep  up  the  front  of  the  Long 
Investment  Company,  Long  had  not  pressed  the 
point.     Neither  had  he  been  convinced. 

It  was  against  Big  Jim  Long  that  Hardshell 
Gaines  cherished  the  one  hatred  of  his  life.  It 
had  started  when  Long  sought  to  amuse  himself 
and  his  friends  by  ridiculing  Gaines  and  his 
stable.  He  had  joked  at  the  old  man's  clothes, 
at  his  stable,  his  colors,  and  his  jockey — and 
then  had  made  the  fatal  blunder  of  ridiculing 
Sword  of  Gideon,  calling  him  a  ''hound.'' 

Perhaps  nothing  else  would  have  aroused 
vengeful  hate  in  the  bosom  of  Hardshell,  but  to 
speak  scornfully  of  Sword  of  Gideon  was  the 
unbearable  insult.  The  Sword  was  Hardshell's 
weakness,  the  consummation  of  his  life's  ambi- 


14  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

tion  gone  wrong.  It  was  as  if  he  had  reared  a 
strong,  handsome  son  and  seen  him  crippled  and 
then  laughed  at. 

Hardshell  had  bred  and  reared  the  colt  and 
named  him,  as  he  did  all  his  other  colts,  from 
the  Bible.  As  a  two-year-old,  racing  against 
the  best  of  the  baby  thoroughbreds  of  the  West, 
the  Sword  had  shown  stamina,  gameness,  a 
racing  instinct,  and  a  dazzling  burst  of  speed. 
He  was  royally  sired,  and  even  the  millionaire 
owners  agreed  that  Hardshell  had  at  last  pro- 
duced a  great  colt.  In  mid-season  he  was  rated 
as  one  of  the  two  best  two-year-olds  of  the  year, 
and  offers  of  large  sums  were  made  for  him.  He 
was  eligible  to  race  in  all  the  big  three-year-old 
stake  races  the  next  season,  and  Hardshell  had 
refused  to  listen  to  any  offer  or  set  any  price. 
He  had  set  out  to  develop  a  champion  racer 
down  there  on  the  little  farm  in  the  Big  Bend 
of  the  Tennessee,  a  champion  which  would  out- 
run and  outgame  the  best  of  the  country  and 
win  the  American  derby — then  the  greatest  of 
all  turf  prizes. 

Late  in  August  the  thing  happened.  The  colt 
was  at  the  starting  post  in  a  six-furlong  dash 
on  the  Hawthorne  track  when  the  barrier,  a 
band  of  elastic,  was  broken  by  the  lunging  of 
another  colt.  The  elastic  band  struck  Sword  of 
Gideon  in  the  eye  and  maddened  him  with 
fright  and  pain.  The  accident  seemed  trivial, 
but  the  effect  was  the  destruction  of  Hardshell's 
life  dream.  Never  thereafter  would  Sword  of 
Gideon  face  the  barrier  without  a  fight.  The 
memory  of  the  stinging  agony  of  that  flying 
elastic  was  not  to  be  effaced.  A  dozen  times 
exasperated  starters  ordered  him  out  of  races 


*' HARDSHELL''    GAINES  15 

and  sent  him  back  for  further  schooling  at  the 
barrier.  Schooling  was  useless.  He  refused  to 
face  the  thing  which  had  hurt  him.  The  only- 
way  in  which  he  could  be  handled  at  the  start 
of  a  race  was  for  the  jockey  to  turn  his  head 
away  from  the  barrier,  wait  until  the  other 
horses  started,  then  throw  him  around  and  send 
him  after  the  flying  field.  Occasionally  when 
the  jockey  swung  him  at  the  right  second  he  had 
a  chance  to  win.  The  majority  of  times  he  was 
handicapped  five  or  six  lengths  on  every  start, 
and  not  infrequently  when  he  heard  the  swish 
of  the  barrier  he  bolted  the  wrong  way  of  the 
track.  Look  in  the  guide  and  after  his  name  in 
many  races  you  will  find  the  brief  record  of  a 
tragedy  in  the  words,  ^*Left  at  post.'* 

The  champion  was  ruined.  But  in  the  heart 
of  Hardshell  Gaines  Sword  of  Gideon  still  was 
the  champion.  He  worked  over  him  as  tenderly 
as  a  mother  over  a  crippled  child,  and  for  him 
he  sang  his  favorite  hymns,  as  if  striving  to  com- 
fort the  horse  when  he  had  behaved  badly  at  the 
post.  The  newspapers,  on  account  of  his  bad  act- 
ing at  the  start,  wrote  of  him  as  "Swored  at 
Gideon.'* 

Big  Jim  Long  had  called  the  Sword  a 
*  *  hound,  *  *  and  thereafter  Hardshell  never  spoke 
to  him  but  passed  him  imseeing.  At  the  bar  one 
day  Big  Jim  had  noisily  invited  everyone  to 
drink  with  him,  and  Hardshell  had  thrown 
away  his  beer  and  spat  before  walking  away — 
and  the  open  insult  stung  even  Big  Jim  Long. 

All  this  was  three  years  prior  to  the  day  when 
the  affairs  of  the  Long  Investment  Company 
reached  their  climax.  In  his  New  York  offices, 
Kirtin  realized  that  the  finish  was  at  hand.  The 


16  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

bags  filled  with  money  had  been  removed  from 
the  safe  in  the  luxurious  offices  of  the  Long  In- 
vestment Company,  carried  through  the  door 
connecting  them  with  the  little  office  of  Thos.  J. 
Kirtin,  Investments,  and  the  door  locked  on 
both  sides.  Then  Kirtin  did  the  one  decent  thing 
of  his  career.  He  sent  a  code  telegram  to  Ijong 
and  to  every  agent  of  the  company  over  the 
ganglia  of  leased  Tvdres,  warning  them  that  the 
jig  was  up  and  it  was  time  to  disappear. 

Probably  it  was  not  until  he  read  that  mes- 
sage that  Big  Jim  Long  understood  the  full  sig- 
nificance of  the  situation.  He  never  had  stopped 
to  ask  himself  why  Kirtin  had  bestowed  rank 
and  titles  upon  him,  why  he  had  elected  him 
president,  and  why  all  the  ornate  stationery  and 
the  many  messages  bore  his  name,  or  even  why 
he  had  been  paid  five  thousand  dollars  a  week. 
Perhaps  he  thought  he  earned  it  by  virtue  of 
his  influence  among  racing  people.  He  under- 
stood now  that  he,  Jim  Long,  would  be  held 
accountable  to  the  law,  that  he  would  be  fugi- 
tive or  prisoner  while  Kirtin,  with  the  millions 
of  dollars  looted  from  the  public,  could  not  be 
connected  with  the  swindle  and  would  be  safe  in 
Europe. 

He  cursed  Kirtin,  and,  strangely,  not  because 
Kirtin  was  a  thief  and  worse.  He  cursed  him 
because  he  considered  Kirtin  a  fool.  Had  Kir- 
tin followed  his  plan  and  advice,  the  scheme 
would  have  worked.  With  that  almost  unlimited 
capital  behind  him  he  could  have  fixed  enough 
races  and  won  enough  money  to  pay  the  divi- 
dends. 

Long  knew  that  within  a  day  or  two,  three  at 
the  longest,  the  authorities  would  descend  upon 


''HARDSHELL''   GAINES  17 

the  company  offices.  With  a  sudden  determina- 
tion, Long  sent  a  code  order  to  every  agent  of 
the  company  to  ignore  Kirtin's  message  and  pre- 
pare for  a  killing. 

Let  Kirtin  go  his  cowardly  way.  He,  Big 
Jim  Long,  would  face  the  situation,  pay  the  divi- 
dends, and  handle  the  big  money  himself.  He 
knew  that  at  least  a  half  million  dollars  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  the  agents  of  the  com- 
pany in  different  cities — the  gleanings  which 
Kirtin  had  not  considered  worth  the  risk  to 
remain  and  collect.  Long  telegraphed,  ordering 
the  agents  to  hold  all  funds  subject  to  his  order 
instead  of  forwarding  them  to  New  York. 

Kirtin,  busy  clearing  the  desk  in  his  office  and 
destroying  the  last  papers  that  would  reveal 
any  connection  between  Kirtin,  Investments, 
and  the  Long  Investment  Company,  heard  the 
news  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  tried 
to  save  the  fools,  and  if  they  refused  to  be  saved 
it  was  none  of  his  affair.  An  hour  later  he  and 
his  suitcases  were  in  the  stateroom  of  a  liner. 

At  the  Fair  Grounds  track  in  St.  Louis,  Big 
Jim  Long  set  to  work  hastily  to  stave  off  disas- 
ter and  revive  the  investment  company.  He  had 
considered  telegraphing  the  authorities  to  hold 
Kirtin,  but  had  rejected  the  plan  as  unbecoming 
one  in  his  profession.  Long's  plan  of  proce- 
dure was  simple  and  direct.  He  would  fix  a  race, 
pay  the  horse  owners  well,  and  win  enough 
money  to  declare  another  dividend,  restoring 
the  faith  of  the  investors,  who  already  had  be- 
gun to  show  signs  of  uneasiness  as  rumors 
spread.  It  was  not  a  problem  of  morals  but  of 
mathematics. 

The  chief  obstacle   to  his    plan  was  lack  of 

2— July  22. 


18  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

time,  and  he  knew  he  must  act  rapidly.  Already 
the  rumors  that  the  Long  Investment  Company 
was  in  trouble  had  spread  through  the  uneasy 
ranks  of  the  gamblers,  and  Long  knew  the  first 
one  who  informed  a  district  attorney  of  the 
affairs  of  the  company  would  bring  the  ava- 
lanche. By  rapid  work  he  completed  his  pre- 
liminary plans  during  the  races  that  afternoon. 
An  overnight  handicap  was  carded  for  the  next 
day's  races,  and  Long  selected  eight  owners 
whose  morals  he  knew  were  below  the  par  even 
of  racing  and  each  agreed  to  enter  a  horse  in 
the  race.  The  chief  problem  was  to  prevent 
other  owners  from  naming  their  horses  to  start, 
and  to  avoid  this  one  owner  agreed  to  enter  At- 
torney Jackson,  a  high-class  racer,  to  frighten 
owners  of  slower  horses  out. 

That  evening  a  caucus  was  held.  Besides 
Long,  eight  owners  were  present.  It  was  agreed 
that  with  Attorney  Jackson  the  favorite,  the 
odds  against  Mildred  Eogers  would  be  at  least 
fifteen  to  one,  therefore  by  simple  arithmetic 
Mildred  Rogers  should  win,  because  fifteen  times 
one  is  fifteen,  whereas  two  times  one  is  two.  Long 
intended  to  bet  the  remnants  of  the  capital  of  the 
investment  company,  and,  figuring  the  price 
would  recede  from  fifteen  or  twenty  to  one  to 
ten  to  one  before  the  money  was  placed,  he  esti- 
mated that  he  would  win  close  to  five  million 
dollars.  Not  a  cent  was  to  be  wagered  at  the 
track. 

The  caucus,  after  nominating  Mildred  Rogers 
to  win,  decided  that  Attorney  Jackson  was  to 
make  the  early  running,  cutting  out  a  terrific 
pace  to  the  head  of  the  stretch,  while  Betty  M. 
and  Pretty  Dehon  were  to  come  up  fast,  crowd 


''HARDSHELL''   GAINES  19 

the  leader  far  outside  on  the  turn,  allowing 
Mildred  Rogers  to  come  through  along  the  rail, 
after  which  the  entire  field  was  to  bunch  behind 
her  and  shoo  her  home  a  winner,  while  Attorney 
Jackson  pulled  up  as  if  lame. 

The  rehearsal  was  progressing  satisfactorily 
and  each  owner  was  receiving  instructions  as  to 
the  way  his  horse  should  run.  The  caucus  was 
pleased.  Long  had  agreed  that  he  would  bet  at 
least  four  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  that  he 
would  give  twenty-five  per  cent  of  the  total  win- 
nings to  the  owners.  The  eight  who  were  play- 
ing deuces  wild  in  the  sport  of  kings  were  cal- 
culating that  they  would  divide  at  least  a  mil- 
lion dollars  among  themselves  when  the  dis- 
quieting news  arrived. 

"What  the  hell  do  you  think  of  thatT'  Sor« 
gan,  owner  of  Patsy  Frewen,  demanded.  * '  Old 
Hardshell  Gaines  has  entered  old  Swored  at 
Gideon. ' ' 

There  were  a  chorus  of  curses. 

**That  hound  of  his  ain't  got  a  chanst,''  de- 
clared Kinsley.  *'It's  ten  to  one  he  runs  the 
wrong  way  of  the  track." 

"He's  the  worst  actor  at  the  post  on  the  cir- 
cuit," said  Stanley. 

He's  liable  to  bust  up  the  start." 
Better  pick  one  of  our  horses  to  bump  him 
and  put  him  over  a  fence,"  snarled  McGuire. 
"He  ain't  got  any  business  in  this.     He  knows 
Attorney  Jackson  can  beat  him." 

It  was  a  testimonial  to  his  reputation  for 
honesty  that  not  one  of  the  assembled  crooks 
even  suggested  asking  Gaines  to  enter  the  con- 
spiracy. They  cursed  him  for  an  interfering  old 
fool,  they  cursed  his  stubbornness,  they  cursed 


20  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

his  idiocy  in  still  insisting  that  Sword  of  Gideon 
was  a  stake  horse,  they  cursed  his  supposed  par- 
simony and  believed  he  had  entered  his  aged 
racer  in  the  hope  of  winning  a  few  dollars  by 
getting  the  place  or  show  money.  Not  one  sus- 
pected that  anything  excepting  blind  chance 
had  caused  him  to  enter  his  horse  in  the  race. 

They  were  wrong.  Hardshell  Gaines,  with  an 
unsullied  record  of  fifty  years  on  the  turf,  had 
heard  something.  He  had  seen  Long  in  confer- 
ence with  some  owners,  and  when  the  same  own- 
ers rushed  to  enter  their  horses  in  the  overnight 
handicap  Gaines'  suspicion  had  become  cer- 
tainty. He  had  entered  Sword  of  Gideon  in  the 
handicap,  and  for  an  hour  afterward  had  rubbed 
and  stroked  the  old  campaigner,  and  as  he 
rolled  bandages  around  the  bad  leg  of  the  old 
horse  and  applied  liniment  to  his  throat,  he  had 
hummed  a  hynm. 

Occasionally  his  voice  rose  in  song  and  he 
sang  of  the  time  when  "the  wicked  cease  from 
troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest."  It  was 
after  dark  when  he  entered  the  Laclede  down- 
town and  sought  out  the  assistant  starter. 

* '  Joe, ' '  he  said  solemnly,  ' '  I  have  been  in  this 
game,  man  an'  boy,  clost  to  fifty  year  and  tried 
to  run  straight  and  do  right  as  a  hossman  and 
a  Baptist.  No  man  can  say  James  Buchanan 
Gaines  owes  him  a  cent  or  ever  done  a  dishonest 
thing.  I've  done  had  a  wrastle  with  my  con- 
science, and  consarn  me  if  I  believe  it's  wrong 
to  skin  a  skunk!" 

Joe  nodded  approval. 

''There's  something  doing,  Joe,"  said  Hard- 
shell. "Eight  of  them  owners  and  that  slick 
crook  Jim  Long  is  holdin'  a  caucus.     Nary  a 


''HARDSHELL''    GAINES  21 

•word  to  old  Hardshell,  and  the  Sword  is  en- 
tered. ' ' 

Joe  nodded  understandingly. 

"Lissen,  Joe,"  said  Hardshell,  lowering  his 
voice.  *'Long  is  planning  a  big  killing,  and  it's 
up  to  me  and  the  Sword  and  you  to  stop  him. 
The  Sword  is  good  for  once,  if  that  nigh  left  leg 
don't  overheat.  He  can  beat  any  boss  in  that 
race,  'ceptin'  Attorney  Jackson,  and  I  reckon 
they  ain't  plannin'  to  have  no  favorite  win." 

Joe  nodded  again  and  reserved  speech,  wait- 
ing for  the  proposition. 

"I  ain't  asking  no  man  to  do  anything  dis- 
honest, Joe,"  the  old  man  went  on — *'it's  agin 
my  religion  and  my  conscience  too — but  some- 
thing's got  to  be  done." 

Hardshell  waited  expectantly  and  hummed 
*'When  temptation  sore  assails  me,"  hoping 
that  Joe  would  indicate  his  attitude  or  show  re- 
ceptivity, but  the  assistant  starter  nodded  and 
smoked  in  silence. 

"  'Tain't  as  if  I  was  trying  to  bribe  any- 
one," Hardshell  explained  painfully.  "I  don't 
want  no  one  to  do  anything  that  is  agin  his 


conscience." 


What  do  you  want  me  to  doT'  Joe  asked, 
breaking  his  silence. 

* '  All  I  ask  is  that  you  help  the  Sword  get  off 
straight,  and  me  and  you  and  the  Sword '11  spile 
the  crookedest  plan  ever  hatched." 

** Ain't  any  law  against  my  helping  a  bad 
actor  get  off  right,"  said  Joe. 

Hardshell  said  no  more.  He  gripped  Joe's 
hand  hard,  and,  after  buying  him  a  cigar, 
strolled  away,  humming  ''Come,  Holy  Spirit, 
Heavenly  Love,  with  all  thy  quickening  powers. 


>  > 


22  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

There  was  an  air  of  uneasiness  hanging  over 
the  betting  ring  at  the  Fair  Grounds  track  as 
the  horses  hand-galloped  to  the  starting  post  in 
the  fourth  race.  The  air  was  surcharged  with 
expectancy.  Judges,  always  alert  and  watching 
for  signs  of  dishonesty,  stared  at  the  horses  and 
received  frequent  bulletins  from  the  betting 
ring.  Bookmakers,  fearful  of  a  sudden  attack 
by  betting  commissioners  backing  a  certain 
horse,  held  their  chalk  and  erasers  ready  for 
rapid  use.  Bettors,  hearing  vague  whispers  of 
*' something  doing,"  asked  each  other  excitedly 
what  was  being  played.  Yet  everything  in  the 
betting  ring,  paddock,  and  stand  seemed  tran- 
quil. The  betting  was  light.  Attorney  Jackson 
was  favorite  at  seven  to  five.  Patsy  Frewen  the 
second  choice,  at  two  to  one,  the  others  at  odds 
of  from  four  to  twenty,  with  Mildred  Rogers 
ranging  from  fifteen  to  twenty  to  one  and  only 
a  few  scattered  bets  registered  on  her.  Yet 
from  a  score  of  cities  all  over  America  came 
frantic  telegrams  to  gamblers,  bookies,  and 
owners,  asking  for  track  odds  and  inquiring  the 
meaning  of  the  terrific  plunging  on  Mildred 
Rogers.  Big  Jim  Long,  using  the  efficient  or- 
ganization of  the  company,  was  betting  the  re- 
maining funds  of  the  concern.  More  than  fifty 
thousand  was  bet  in  Chicago,  thirty  thousand  in 
Louisville,  twenty  thousand  in  Cincinnati,  then 
twelve  thousand  or  more  in  other  cities  in  which 
the  Long  Investment  Company  had  offices. 

There  was  a  last  minute  plunge  on  Mildred 
Rogers  at  St.  Louis  by  gamblers  who  had  heard 
the  news  from  outside,  and  the  odds  dropped 
quickly  from  fifteen  to  four  to  one. 

As  he  tightened  the  girth  for  the  last  time, 


''HARDSHELL''   GAINES  23 

Hardshell  Gaines  whispered  to  Pete,  his  jockey : 

*'Take  a  toe  holt  and  a  tooth  holt,  Pete.  Joe '11 
git  you  off  a-runnin',  and  I  got  a  pill  in  him 
that'd  blow  up  a  bank.  It's  timed  to  go  off 
about  the  half-mile  if  you  ain't  too  long  at  the 
post.    All  you  got  to  do  is  sit  still  and  hold  on. '  * 

Humming,  he  went  to  the  book  of  his  friend 
and  wagered  two  dollars  that  Sword  of  Gideon 
would  win.  He  was  still  humming  when  he 
went  down  to  the  rail  to  watch  the  horses  start, 
and  the  hymn  he  hummed  was,  *'0h,  for  a 
thousand  tongues  to  sing  my  great  Redeemer's 
praise." 

Out  by  the  barrier  a  perspiring  starter  was 
beseeching,  swearing,  threatening,  and  scolding, 
while  a  row  of  horses  milled  and  maneuvered  for 
position.  In  the  midst  of  the  melee  of  milling 
horses,  Joe,  the  assistant  starter,  a  buggy  whip  in 
one  hand,  sweated  and  swore  as  he  appeared  to 
be  striving  to  make  Sword  of  Gideon  line  up 
with  the  other  horses.  Out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  Joe  watched  the  starter  for  the  telltale  move- 
ment which  revealed  the  second  that  the  starter 
would  spring  the  barrier. 

When  that  movement  came  Joe  held  the  bridle 
bit  of  Sword  of  Gideon,  and  before  the  barrier 
flashed  he  threw  the  horse's  head  around,  leaped 
aside,  and  slashed  him  sharply  across  the  quar- 
ters with  the  whip. 

Sword  of  Gideon,  stung  into  forgetfulness  of 
fear,  leaped  forward.  The  barrier  flashed  past 
his  nose  and  he  leaped  into  full  stride,  two  full 
lengths  in  the  lead  of  the  field  before  the  others 
were  under  way. 

Big  Jim  Long,  his  florid  face  mottled,  hurled 
his  chewed  cigar  against  the  ground  and  swore 


24  TALES  OF  TEE  TURF 

viciously.  Sword  of  Gideon,  running  like  a  wild 
horse,  opened  up  a  gap  of  eight  lengths  between 
himself  and  the  nearest  pursuer  in  the  first 
eighth  of  a  mile.  In  vain  Attorney  Jackson's 
jockey,  remembering  his  instructions,  spurred 
and  urged  his  mount,  striving  to  catch  the  flying 
leader  and  set  the  pace.  At  the  half  Attorney 
Jackson  dropped  back,  beaten  and  out  of  it. 
Mildred  Rogers'  rider,  seeing  the  conspiracy  go- 
ing wrong,  made  a  desperate  effort  to  overtake 
the  flying  Sword.  The  nitroglycerine  pellet  had 
acted  and  the  aged  horse  was  running  as  he  had 
run  when  he  seemed  destined  to  be  champion. 
Length  by  length  he  increased  his  lead  over  the 
staggering,  wabbling  field,  and  tore  down  the 
stretch  fifteen  lengths  ahead  of  Patsy  Frewen. 

Big  Jim  Long,  his  heavy  jaws  sagging,  his  face 
mottled  red  and  white,  his  big,  soft  hands 
clenched,  watched  until  the  horses  were  within 
a  few  yards  of  the  finish.  Then  he  turned  and 
w^alked  rapidly  across  through  the  edge  of.  the 
betting  ring  toward  the  exit.  At  the  back  of 
the  betting  ring  he  met  Hardshell  Gaines  moving 
toward  the  paddock  to  greet  the  victorious 
Sword  of  Gideon.  Big  Jim's  pent  up  wrath 
exploded. 

*'You — and  your  blank  blanked  spavined 
hound ! "  he  raged.  ' '  You  blanked  old  fool,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you — " 

Hardshell  Gaines  looked  straight  ahead,  un- 
seeing, unhearing,  and  as  he  walked  past  the 
furious  gambler  he  hummed  contentedly;  and 
even  Big  Jim  recognized  the  long  metre  doxology. 


c? 


JAUNDICE'S"  LAST 
RACE 


"JAUNDICE'S"  LAST  RACE 


There  remains  some  of  the  Christ-spirit  in  the 
worst  of  us,  perhaps,  but  the  most  optimistic  of 
missionaries  would  hardly  have  assayed  the  soul 
of  ''Jaundice"  O'Keefe  with  the  hope  of  discov- 
ering even  a  trace  of  that  quality.  Jaundice 
was  a  product,  or  by-product,  of  the  race-track. 
He  had  run  away  from  his  home  in  St.  Louis  at 
the  age  of  eleven,  to  escape  the  beatings  adminis- 
tered by  a  drinking  father  and  a  sodden  mother, 
and  had  found  refuge  in  a  freight  car  loaded 
with  horses  which  were  being  shipped  to  a  race- 
meeting  in  New  Orleans.  Two  hostlers  were 
drinking  from  a  bottle  when  not  sleeping  on  a 
pile  of  hay.  They  welcomed  the  boy,  gave  him  a 
drink,  fed  him,  and  allowed  him  to  burrow  into 
the  hay  for  warmth.  Perhaps  it  was  kindness, 
perhaps  they  saw  in  him  a  means  of  escaping 
the  work  of  feeding  and  watering  horses  during 
the  long  journey. 

Jaundice  was  happy.  He  loved  horses.  Per- 
haps that  was  the  remaining  trace  of  good  after 
the  rest  had  been  bred  or  beaten  out  of  him.  He 
had  loved  the  horses  which  drew  the  coal  wagon 
his  father  drove  when  sober,  and  the  sight  of  the 
trim  thoroughbreds  filled  him  with  awed  admira- 
tion. Arrived  in  New  Orleans,  he  followed  the 
horses  to  the  race-track,  found  refuge  in  the 

27 


28  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

stables,  and  was  adopted  into  the  army  of  those 
who  follow  the  races.  A  year  later  he  had  ac- 
quired a  master's  degree  in  profanity  and 
obscenity  and  developed  a  ratlike  viciousness  in 
fighting  when  cornered.  He  was  undersized  and 
undernourished,  with  the  remnants  of  a  fighting 
spirit  from  generations  of  Irish  sustaining  him. 
Stable-boys  learned  to  fear  the  savageness  of  his 
methods  and  left  him  alone.  Occasionally  a 
trainer  or  stable  boss  beat  him  with  a  whip  and 
cursed  him. 

Instinctively  horses  loved  him.  In  one  year 
he  was  an  exercise  boy.  At  fourteen,  with  all 
the  wickedness  and  viciousness  of  the  race-track 
and  stable  concentrated  in  him,  he  could  ride 
and  was  awarded  a  jockey's  license  and  a  suit  of 
gay-colored  silks. 

He  rode  winners.  Winning,  with  Jaundice, 
was  unselfish.  He  rode  not  for  personal  glory 
or  for  money,  but  for  the  honor  of  the  horse  on 
which  he  was  mounted.  When  he  was  beaten  he 
gulped  dry  sobs  and  went  away  with  his  mount 
to  console  it. 

For  four  years  he  rode  races  on  the  flat,  at 
tracks  all  over  America.  During  these  four 
years  he  made  as  much  money  as  the  average 
man  makes  in  a  lifetime,  and  at  the  end  of  it 
had  nothing.  To  him  money  meant  only  expen- 
sive meals,  clothes  remarkable  for  colors  and 
patterns,  wine,  women  of  a  sort,  and  large  yellow 
diamonds.  At  eighteen  he  was  an  old  man.  His 
face  was  yellow  and  drawn ;  he  had  ceased  to  be 
**Kid'^  O'Keefe  and  become  ** Jaundice."  He 
was  gaining  weight  and  beginning  to  pay  the 
penalty  of  the  carouses  which  followed  each  tem- 
porary period  of  prosperity.     For  a  year  he 


''JAVNDICE'S''  last  race  29 

fought  to  hold  his  standing.  His  mounts  became 
fewer  and  fewer.  When  the  owners  ceased  to 
employ  him  to  ride  on  the  flat,  he  became  a 
steeplechase  jockey. 

Riding  steeplechasers  in  races  means  in  the 
majority  of  cases  moral  and  physical  suicide. 
Jaundice  had  no  fear  of  physical  consequence, 
nor  any  conception  of  morality.  With  two 
drinks  of  whisky  poured  into  his  outraged  body, 
he  would  have  tried  to  make  his  mount  jump 
the  Grand  Canon,  had  the  course  led  in  that 
direction.  Falls  and  broken  bones  failed  to 
break  his  nerve,  but  his  subconscious  honesty 
was  shattered.  On  the  flat  he  never  had  ridden 
a  crooked  race.  He  was  restrained  by  no  con- 
sciousness of  right  or  wrong.  He  tried  always 
to  win  because  he  loved  the  horses  he  rode.  Over 
the  jumps  he  had  no  such  scruples.  The  steeple- 
chase horses  were  *' has-beens"  like  himself  and 
entitled  to  no  consideration.  He  commenced  to 
ride  queer-looking  races.  He  was  nineteen  when 
he  fell  off  the  favorite  in  a  steeplechase  race  to 
permit  an  outsider  to  win  and  the  stewards  ruled 
him  off  the  tracks  for  one  year. 

What  Jaundice  did  in  that  year  of  banishment 
he  alone  knew  in  detail.  Barred  from  the  only 
home  and  the  only  associates  he  had  ever  known, 
the  great  loneliness  came  upon  him.  He  was 
broke.  He  stole  and  was  sent  to  prison.  When 
the  suspension  was  lifted  he  went  back  to  the 
tracks.  He  had  grown  heavier  and  his  eyes  and 
his  mind  were  blurred  by  drink.  He  lived  with 
the  horses,  attaching  himself  to  the  stable  for 
which  he  had  been  a  star  jockey,  and  lived  in 
the  stalls  and  the  cars.  His  love  of  the  animals 
themselves  had  waned.     Drudgery  and  vicious 


20  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

living  had  warped  even  that  instinct.  When  he 
dared  he  became  a  tout,  whispering  information 
to  petty  gamblers  at  the  edge  of  the  betting-ring. 
When  he  left  the  tracks  at  night  it  was  to  betray 
stable  information  to  bartenders  in  return  for 
drinks. 

When  he  was  twenty-two  there  remained  two 
loves  by  which  it  was  proved  that  all  good  can 
not  be  smelted  out  of  a  human  being.  One  was 
for  Doc  Grausman,  the  gallant  bay  stake  horse 
of  the  stable,  whose  dam  he  had  ridden  to  victory 
many  times.     The  other  was  for  Lord  James. 

On  race-tracks  there  is  something  in  a  name. 
Jaundice  received  his  because  his  complexion 
had  become  a  dirty  yellow.  Lord  James  was  so 
called  because  the  one  spark  of  decency  remain- 
ing in  him  caused  him  to  conceal  his  family 
name.  It  was  reputed  that  he  was  the  son  of  an 
English  nobleman  and  that  he  could  have  a  title 
and  estate  if  he  returned  to  England.  Rags  of 
an  old  pride  and  remnants  of  decent  breeding 
restrained  Lord  James  from  mentioning  the  fam- 
ily name  as  his  own  or  from  returning  home  to 
disgrace  them.  He  had  come  to  America,  a 
younger  son,  with  a  stable  of  race-horses  and 
high  hopes.  Robbed,  fleeced,  he  had  ''quit." 
Jaundice  can  not  be  spoken  of  as  having  degen- 
erated. His  original  height  permitted  but  a 
slight  fall.  But  Lord  James  had  sunk  to  even 
lower  levels.  He  was  a  cadger,  a  tout,  and  a 
sneak-thief  at  such  times  when  no  risk  was 
involved. 

No  one  around  the  tracks  hated  either  Lord 
James  or  Jaundice.  They  pitied  Jaundice,  but 
the  touts  themselves  despised  Lord  James.  He 
had  lost  all  his  courage,  if  he  ever  possessed  any, 


'JAUNDICE'S"  LAST  RACE  31 

and  drink  had  sapped  his  health  and  his  brain. 
Of  the  trio,  only  Doe  Grausman  bore  his  name 
honestly.  His  names  were  those  of  his  sire  and 
his  granddam,  and  he  was  of  royal  blood  and 
three  years  old. 

When  Lord  James  and  Jaundice  had  become 
friends  no  one  knew.  Probably  it  was  during 
Jaundice 's  career  as  a  winning  jockey,  while  he 
scattered  money  recklessly  after  every  winning 
race.  Upon  such  boys  Lord  James  had  preyed 
for  years.  These  two  had  nothing  in  common. 
Race,  religion,  birth,  breeding,  and  education 
made  them  different,  but  they  met  in  the  thick 
scum  of  vice  and  became  inseparable.  For  Lord 
James,  Jaundice  stole  and  betrayed  stable  se- 
crets, pulled  race-horses,  bought  drinks,  and  fur- 
nished food  and  lodging.  It  is  not  recorded  that 
Lord  James  ever  did  anything  for  Jaundice. 

These  two  sank  lower  and  lower  together. 
"When  the  majority  of  the  race-tracks  of  the 
country  were  closed,  they  disappeared  from  the 
world  of  sport,  starved,  and  served  prison  terms 
together.  When  racing  reopened,  they  reap- 
peared. Jaundice  had  developed  a  cough.  His 
wasted  body  revealed  the  ravages  of  tuberculosis. 
Lord  James  was  wearing,  with  a  pitiful  effort  to 
maintain  an  air  of  decency,  a  suit  purchased 
with  his  last  remittance  money  two  years  before. 

The  horses  were  racing  at  Jamaica  and  the 
weather  was  raw  and  rainy.  They  experienced 
difficulty  in  gaining  an  entry  to  the  track  and 
were  compelled  to  remain  outside,  shivering  and 
wet,  until  the  day's  sport  ended.  Then  a  negro 
stable-boy  allowed  them  to  sleep  with  him  in  a 
stall,  and  Jaundice  procured  food  from  the 
camp-fires,  where  no  one  ever  is  refused. 


32  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

Lord  James  did  not  get  up  the  nest  morning. 
He  had  crawled  into  the  hay  with  wet  clothing 
and  in  the  morning  he  had  a  fever.  Jaundice 
brought  him  food,  but  he  did  not  eat.  All  day 
he  remained  huddled  in  the  hay,  covered  with 
horse  blankets,  his  face  turned  to  the  board  wall. 
He  was  thinking  and  his  mind  was  Gethsemane. 

During  the  night  Lord  James  touched  Jaun- 
dice with  his  hand  and  waked  him.  Very 
quietly  and  with  a  return  of  long-forgotten  dig- 
nity, he  entrusted  to  Jaundice  an  envelope  upon 
which  was  written  an  address  in  England, 
charging  him  to  mail  it  and  allow  no  one  to  see 
it.  He  asked  Jaundice  to  see  the  boys  and  ask 
them  to  bury  him  decently.  Then  he  gripped 
Jaundice's  hand  and  died  gamely,  sustained  by 
the  traditions  of  his  race  and  class.  Jaundice 
alone  wept.  It  was  the  first  time  in  many  years 
he  had  wept,  and  he  was  ashamed  of  his  tears. 

Around  the  race-track  no  man  connected  with 
the  game  dies  and  lacks  a  decent  funeral,  but 
there  w^as  scant  sympathy  for  Lord  James.  The 
hat  was  passed,  bookmakers,  jockeys,  trainers, 
owners,  grafters,  even  the  pickpockets,  contrib- 
uting, but  their  contributions  were  small.  The 
whole  amounted  to  eighty  dollars.  Jaundice 
was  not  satisfied.  Had  he  been  satisfied,  there 
would  have  been  no  story  to  tell. 

On  the  day  following  the  horses  moved  to 
Belmont  Park  to  open  the  racing  season  on  that 
track,  and  Doe  Grausman  was  entered  to  start 
in  a  high-weight  handicap.  Doc  Grausman  be- 
longed to  a  wealthy  man  whose  colors  Jaundice 
had  often  carried  to  victory.  This  owner  had 
not  entered  the  horse  in  the  handicap  with  any 
expectation  of  winning.    The  colt  needed  work, 


i( 


J  A  UN  DICE 'S ' '  LAST  RACE  33 


and  he  wanted  to  see  how  well  the  three-year- 
old  could  carry  weight  racing  against  all  aged 
horses. 

Jaundice  had  not  slept.  His  clothing  still 
was  damp  and  he  was  coughing.  For  the  time 
his  abiding  love  for  Doc  Grausman  was  put  in 
the  background  while  he  went  from  man  to  man 
begging  money  to  give  Lord  James  what  he  con- 
sidered a  proper  and  fitting  funeral.  The  un- 
dertaker wanted  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Jaundice  was  determined  to  raise  the  sum  before 
the  afternoon's  sport  ended. 

Shortly  before  the  bugle  sounded,  calling  the 
horses  from  the  paddock  for  the  first  race,  a 
fractious  colt  lashed  out  with  his  feet  and  kicked 
the  jockey  who  had  been  employed  to  ride  Doc 
Grausman  in  the  fourth.  Jaundice  heard  of  the 
accident  within  a  few  minutes.  It  was  he  who 
hurried  to  the  club-house    and    informed    the 


owner. 


Thanks,  Jaundice,'*  the  owner  said  care- 
lessly. **I  wanted  the  colt  to  have  the  workout. 
Now,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  scratch  him.  I  don't 
want  to  put  a  strange  boy  up." 

''Mister  Phil,"  said  Jaundice,  inspired  with: 
a  sudden  idea,  **let  me  ride  Doc  Grausman. 
I'm  down  to  weight.  Mister  Phil.  I  only  weigh 
a  hundred  and  twenty-eight  now.  Let  me  ride 
him,  Mister  Phil,  and  I'll  win." 

His  voice  was  pleading,  his  eyes  and  manner 
appealing,  and  he  coughed  harder.  The  owner 
was  surprised  and  laughed  slightly.  *'I'm 
afraid  it  can  not  be  fixed,  Jaundice,"  he  said 
lightly.  **How  do  you  stand  with  the  stew- 
ards?" 

I  'm  clean  with  them  now.  Mister  Phil.  They 


( ( 


34  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

ain't  got  nothin'  on  me.  They  never  could 
prove  I  pulled  Lady  Kose.  I'm  down  to  weight, 
Mister  Phil,  and  that  Doc  Grausman  horse  likes 
me." 

His  eagerness  and  the  truth  of  the  final  state- 
ment decided  the  matter. 

**I'll  see  the  stewards  and  explain,"  said  the 
owner.  ''He's  only  in  for  the  workout,  and 
perhaps  they'll  stand  for  it.  Sure  you're  strong 
enough  to  handle  the  colt?" 

^  The  owner  had  observed  the  cough,  and  Jaun- 
dice checked  it  with  an  effort. 

**Yes,  Mister  Phil,  I'm  all  right.  Just  caught 
a  cold.  Get  this  mount  for  me.  Mister  Phil. 
I've  got  to  plant  Lord  James  decent." 

*  *  That  old  bum  dead  at  last  ? ' ' 

**Yes,  sir.  I've  got  to  get  a  hundred  and 
fifty  to  plant  him,  and  the  boys  ain't  kicking  in 
fast.  Let  me  ride  this  Doc  Grausman  boss  and 
I'll  plant  Lord  James  swell,  like  his  family 
would  want  him." 

The  owner  passed  over  a  twenty-dollar  bank- 
note. What  he  told  the  track  officials  no  one 
knows,  buj;  when  the  fourth  race  was  called. 
Jaundice,  carefully  hiding  his  cough,  rode  forth 
for  the  first  time  in  four  years  wearing  the  col- 
ors of  his  old  stable. 

The  bookmakers  were  laying  thirty  to  one 
against  Doc  Grausman,  and  a  wit  in  the  ring 
said  it  was  ten  to  one  the  colt,  twenty  to  one 
the  boy.  What  was  not  known  was  that  Jaun- 
dice had  taken  the  money  that  had  been  contrib- 
uted to  bury  Lord  James  and  wagered  it  three 
ways,  straight,  place,  and  show,  on  Doc  Graus- 
man. A  new  generation  of  jockeys  faced  the 
start,  a  generation  that  knew  nothing  of  the  skill 


''JAUNDICE'S"  LAST  RACE  35 

of  the  boy  who  had  ridden  champions.  The 
new  boys,  with  the  contempt  that  youth  holds 
for  the  ** has-been,*'  jeered  at  Jaundice,  and 
hurled  insulting  epithets  at  him  as  they  wheeled 
and  maneuvered  for  the  advantage  of  the 
break.  Jaundice  did  not  retort  with  oaths  and 
vilifications  as  he  would  have  done  in  other 
days.  He  was  afraid  he  would  start  to 
cough. 

The  barrier  flashed.  Jaundice  had  been  hold- 
ing Doc  Grausman  steady  during  the  milling  of 
the  others.  Out  of  the  corner  of  the  eye  he 
had  caught  the  betraying  arm  movement  of  the 
starter  an  instant  before  the  barrier  flashed  up- 
ward, had  shot  Doc  Grausman  at  the  starting 
line  just  the  instant  it  flickered  past  his  nose, 
had  beaten  the  start  a  length  and  a  half  while 
the  others  were  taking  the  first  jump  and  sent 
him  roaring  down  the  long  straight-away  for 
four  and  a  half  furlongs.  Riding  him  out  des- 
perately at  the  end,  he  held  the  lead  by  half  a 
length  over  the  favorite. 

As  the  horses  paraded  back  past  the  stands, 
he  held  his  lips  tightly  pressed  together.  He 
staggered  a  little  as  he  weighed  out,  and  in  the 
paddock  his  lips  were  reddened.  The  strain  of 
the  ride  had  opened  the  old  wounds  in  his  lungs. 

An  hour  later  he  ordered  the  undertaker  to 
give  Lord  James  the  best  funeral  he  could  for 
one  thousand  two  hundred  dollars  and  paid  over 
the  money.  There  remained  for  his  share  of 
the  victory  just  twenty-seven  dollars. 

The  news  spread  around  the  track  that  eve- 
ning that  Jaundice  was  to  give  Lord  James  a 
*' swell  funeral."  Curiosity  was  aroused.  Touts, 
stable-boys,  bookmakers'  helpers,  a  few  jockeys. 


36  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

attended.  It  happened  that  Jaundice  came  to 
me  to  consult  as  to  the  minister,  and  I  had 
secured  the  services  of  a  wonderful  little  rector 
who  is  much  interested  in  all  human  beings. 

The  funeral  was  the  strangest  one  I  ever  at- 
tended. The  little  minister  was  doing  his  best 
to  comfort  the  mourners,  but  plainly  was  at  a 
disadvantage  because  Jaundice  was  the  only 
mourner.  Jaundice,  through  some  instinctive 
sense  of  respect  for  the  dead,  was  standing  very 
awkwardly  and  tears  were  rolling  down  his 
cheeks.  He  was  weeping  for  the  second  time  in 
his  life.  Finally  the  little  rector  read  from 
the  service:     **He  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping." 

Jaundice  started,  then  stared,  reached  instinc- 
tively for  his  pocket,  and  sobbed  in  a  whisper: 
**Ten  dollars  will  win  you  twenty-seven  if  you 
think  old  Lord  James  is  only  sleeping.'* 

His  reversion  to  instinct  raised  a  laugh.  For 
the  first  time  the  assemblage  was  getting  its 
money's  worth.  The  little  rector  was  very  much 
shocked.  He  could  not  understand  that  Jaun- 
dice meant  no  disrespect.  He  argued  that  no 
man  could  live  in  the  United  States  and  be  so 
completely  ignorant  of  religion.  I  said  that 
Jaundice  thought  Jesus  Christ  was  a  cuss  word 
and  that  his  only  knowledge  that  he  possessed 
an  immortal  soul  was  from  hearing  it  God 
damned  by  trainers  and  others. 

A  week  later  I  heard  that  Jaundice  was  in 
a  Brooklyn  hospital  and  in  bad  shape.  I  went 
to  see  him  to  get  for  a  newspaper  the  story  of 
a  jockey  who,  while  sick  to  death,  rode  in  a  race 
to  win  money  enough  to  bury  a  friend.  He  was 
propped  up  in  bed,  coughing.  The  doctor  had 
told  me  he  had  but  a  little  time  to  live.    He 


''JAUNDICE'S''  LAST  RACE  37 

was  glad  to  see  me  and  inquired  how  I  liked 
Lord  James*  funeral. 

*' Great  class  to  that,  Jaundice;  best  I  ever 
attended/' 

**No  one  can't  say  that  I  piked,"  he  re- 
sponded, beaming  at  the  praise.  *'I  planted 
Lord  James  swell,  and  his  folks  can't  ever  say 
I  didn't." 

**You're  looking  better,"  I  lied.  ''Be  back 
on  the  track  pretty  soon?" 

**Lord  James  won't  beat  me  more  than  a 
neck,"  he  said  without  emotion.  ** Something 
busted  inside  me  during  that  race.  Have  you 
heard  how  Doc  Grausman  is  comin'  along?  He 
sure  ought  to  win  that  stake  this  week." 

Presently  he  spoke  of  the  little  rector.  **What 
do  you  think  of  that  guy?"  he  asked,  rather 
contemptuous  of  the  ignorance  of  the  minister. 
**He  thought  Lord  James  was  only  sleeping, 
but  he  wouldn't  back  his  opinion  with  coin." 

I  strove  to  explain,  without  much  success. 

**That  little  guy  is  all  right,"  said  Jaundice. 
**Did  you  hear  what  he  said  about  Lord  James 
havin'  a  chanst  on  that  track  he  was  talking 
about?  Say,  Lord  James  has  about  as  much 
chanst  as  I  have." 

** Every  one  has  a  chance,"  I  said  feebly. 

**Me?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

''Sure;  the  Book  says  every  one  has  who  re- 
pents." 

"I  ain't  got  nothin*  to  repent  of  exceptin' 
pullin'  three  or  four  of  them  bum  chasers.  The 
stewards  couldn't  get  nothin'  on  me  at  that." 

"The  Judges  up  there  know  it  all." 

"Know  everything?  Then,  say,  what  chanst 
has  a  guy  got?'* 


38  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

As  a  religious  prospect  the  case  was  too  hard, 
60  I  telephoned  the  little  rector  and  gave  it 
over  to  him.  He  called  upon  Jaundice  several 
times,  and  the  following  week  I  went  to  the  hos- 
pital again.    Jaundice  was  weak  but  smiling. 

**Say,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  **I  got  a 
chanst.  That  little  man  says  that  them  Judges 
up  there  knows  I  was  carryin'  too  much  weight 
to  run  true  and  that  you  can't  blame  anyone 
for  losin'  when  he  is  handicapped  out  of  it.  I 
told  him  about  pulling  them  chasers  and  lyin' 
and  stealing  and  he  said  that  didn't  make  no 
difference,  that  the  Judges  don't  set  a  guy  down 
forever  if  he  is  sorry  he  done  wrong."  He  re- 
mained thinking  for  a  time. 

**He  didn't  have  to  tell  me  to  be  sorry,''  he 
whispered.  **  Honest,  I  always  was  sorry  when 
I  pulled  one  of  them  bum  chasers  when  he  was 
trying.  It  wasn't  square  to  the  horse.  This 
is  the  softest  bet  I  ever  had,'*  he  whispered. 
"I'm  going  to  play  it.  Them's  good  odds — a 
chanst  to  win  all  them  things  he  told  me  about 
and  only  be  sorry.  It's  like  writing  your  own 
ticket.'* 

I  found  the  little  rector  very  thoughtful  and 
amazed  at  this  new  manner  of  man  he  had  dis- 
covered, and  when  he  buried  Jaundice  the  next 
week  he  got  right  down  among  us  and  talked 
about  handicaps  and  weights,  and  keeping  on 
trying  all  the  time.  He  talked  just  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  paddock  half  his  life,  and  the  last 
thing  he  said  was :  * '  If  I  were  a  bookie,  I  'd 
lay  odds  that  Jaundice  cashes  that  last  bet.'" 


i> 


TOUTIN'  MISTAH  FOX 


TOUTIN'  MISTAH  FOX 

Prosias  Trimble's  protuberant  lower  lip 
drooped  dejectedly,  his  eyes  shifted  in  a  scowl 
until  the  pupils  were  dots  in  the  corners  of 
expanses  of  white,  his  russet  shoes,  rapier- 
pointed  and  uncomfortably  overcrowded  with 
feet,  dragged  laggingly  along  the  marble  floor 
of  the  St.  Charles  Hotel  Turkish  baths.  He 
went  about  his  task  of  distributing  towels  with 
the  air  of  one  who  has  suffered  great  wrong. 

In  the  private  rooms  and  on  cots  ranged  in 
the  dormitory,  white  men  snored,  gurgled, 
choked,  strangled.  The  sounds  of  sixty  fat  men 
snoring  in  sixty  keys  filled  the  rooms.  Even 
the  snore  of  the  man  in  room  six,  which  was 
a  combination  of  shifting  gears,  a  cut-out  muf- 
fler, and  a  slipping  clutch,  passed  unheard  by 
*'Pro."  Even  the  cheery  whistle  of  his  fellow 
rubber  was  unnoticed.  The  world  was  a  place 
of  darkness,  and  Pro's  mood  was  two  shades 
darker  than  his  skin,  the  color  scheme  of  which 
was  that  of  the  ace  of  spades. 

It  was  a  dull  night.  The  St.  Charles  Hotel 
Turkish  baths  were  but  half  filled  with  patrons, 
although  overcrowded  with  snores.  The  light 
patronage  and  the  dejected  mood  of  Prosias 
were  due  to  the  same  cause :  the  winter  meeting 
at  the  Fair  Grounds  race-track  in  New  Orleans 
had  ended  two  days  before,  the  army  of  men 

41 


42  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

and  horses  that  had  encamped  in  the  Crescent 
City  during  the  winter,  and  the  swarm  of  plump 
patrons  which  nightly  had  crowded  the  St. 
Charles,  had  moved  northward  to  Baltimore, 
and  Prosias  Trimble,  top  sergeant  in  that  army, 
with  the  rank  of  tout,  was  left  behind,  to  eke 
out  a  livelihood  by  working  as  rubber  in  the 
bath-house.  The  pearl-colored  spats,  the  pointed 
russet  shoes,  the  fawn  waistcoat  checkerboarded 
in  green,  the  massive  watch-chain  draped  in  two 
graceful  curves  from  buttonhole  to  pockets,  the 
four-carat  near-diamond  which  glistened  with 
fading  brilliancy  in  the  purple  necktie,  were  of 
the  vanities  vain:  the  *' bosses"  were  gone,  and 
Pro,  compelled  to  return  to  the  profession  he 
had  disowned  when  he  became  a  race-follower, 
was  not  with  them. 

Two  days  before  this  night  of  gloom  Prosias 
had  strutted  the  streets  of  New  Orleans — ^the 
envy  of  colored  men,  the  admired  of  many  col- 
ored women.  His  shining  countenance,  which 
reflected  joy  and  happiness,  had  added  color  to 
the  throngs  in  paddock  and  betting  ring.  In 
the  evenings  his  presence  had  graced  social  af- 
fairs of  the  negro  eight  hundred,  and  Miss  Luck 
had  smiled  consistently  upon  him.  He  had 
spent  three  evenings  bidding  farewell  to  the 
friends  he  had  accumulated  during  the  winter, 
had  lightly  promised  half  a  dozen  of  his  newly 
acquired  lady  friends  to  see  them  when  the 
horses  came  back,  and  had  created  envy  and 
dark  hatred  among  the  men  by  the  casual  care- 
lessness with  which  he  bade  them  polite  fare- 
wells and  expressed  hopes  of  seeing  them  at 
Baltimore  or  Louisville  or  even  at  Saratoga  dur- 
ing the  meetings. 


TOVTIN'  MIST  AH  FOX  43 

Until  tlie  morning  of  ''Get  Away  Day"  Miss 
Luck  had  smiled,  and  on  that  morning  she 
beamed.  Prosias  and  his  bank  roll  had  pros- 
pered, waxed  fat,  and  flourished.  The  customary 
rumors  had  circulated  on  that  morning — the  old, 
old  story  of  the  **Get  Away  Killing"  and  the 
feed  man's  bill — and  straight  from  the  oats-box 
the  rumor  had  come  to  Pro,  alighted  upon  him, 
and  stung  him.  It  was  a  hot  tip — so  hot  that 
it  singed  and  burned.  The  tip  was  to  the  effect 
that  Centerdrink  had  been  nominated  to  win — 
that  he  was  to  be  shooed  in  at  long  odds,  and 
that  all  the  grievances  of  the  bettors  against  the 
bookmakers  were  to  be  evened  up  in  one  great 
killing. 

Pro  had  it  from  a  jockey,  who  had  it  right 
out  of  the  conference  at  which  Centerdrink  had 
been  chosen  to  win.  Pro  had  hurled  his  bank- 
roll— the  fortune  accumulated  during  the  entire 
winter — at  the  bookmakers,  who,  instead  of 
breaking  in  panic,  had  handed  him  back  smiles 
and  bits  of  pasteboard  with  cabalistic  charcoal 
characters  on  them.  Pro  had  stood  to  win  more 
than  twelve  thousand  dollars — and  he  had  stood 
dazedly  while  he  watched  Centerdrink  finish 
eighth.  "When  the  truth  dawned  upon  his  be- 
numbed brain  he  had  reached  one  hand  into 
the  now  vacant  pocket,  seeking  car-fare,  and, 
finding  it  not,  had  sought  the  bath-house  and 
work — ^his  dream  of  a  summer  jaunt  around  the 
race-courses  wrecked. 

Pro  completed  his  task  of  distributing  towels 
and  stood  thinking.  Daylight  was  commencing 
to  show  through  the  little  windows  just  under 
the  ceiling  of  the  bath-house,  and  daylight 
brought  with  it  fresh,  bitter  thoughts.  He  knew 


44  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

that  a  few  hundred  miles  to  the  northward  the 
sun  was  rising  on  a  stretch  of  level  land,  a  cir- 
cular ribbon  of  loam  laid  upon  a  field  of  green. 
Birds  were  singing  in  the  trees,  meadow  larks 
were  rising  from  the  infield.  Rows  of  fires  were 
springing  up  along  the  front  of  the  circular  line 
of  low,  whitewashed  stables.  Slender,  graceful 
horses,  blanketed  to  the  knees,  were  being  led 
around  and  around  in  little  circles,  the  odor 
of  frying  bacon  was  in  the  air,  the  rhythmic 
drumming  of  the  feet  of  a  speedy  colt  was 
sounding  from  the  track.  Far  across  the  velvet 
infield,  near  where  the  spidery  pillars  of  the 
stand  stood  black  against  the  lightening  sky, 
men  with  watches  in  their  hands  were  on  the 
rail,  timing  in  fractions  of  seconds  the  move- 
ments of  the  flying  colt.  He  pictured  one  vacant 
spot  on  the  pickets  of  the  fence — a  spot  which, 
but  for  the  fickleness  of  Miss  Luck  and  the  hot 
tip  on  Centerdrink,  he  would  have  been  occu- 
pying. 

Slowly  a  light  broke  over  his  face — as  sun 
striving  to  shine  through  thunder  clouds. 

'*  Reckon  as  how  maybe  Ah '11  be  dar  yit,''  he 
muttered  to  himself.  ''Mist'  Jim  Robin  he  say 
to  me  yistaddy  mahnin':  'Pro,  yuh  wuthless 
niggah,  gimme  good  rub  dis  mahnin'  an'  when 
Ah  gits  to  Baltimo'  Ah '11  sen'  yoh  a  good  thing.' 
Yassah,  dat  'zackly  what  he  done  say,  an'  Ah 
done  rub  him  till  he  yell  'nuff.  Mist'  Jim  Ro- 
bin he  done  keep  his  promise.  He'll  sen'  me 
dat  good  thing,  den  Ah '11  show  dese  Noo  'Leans 
shines  a  classy  niggah.  Ah '11  ride  in  Mistah 
Pullman's  cahr  'stid  o'  Mistah  Burton's  cahr — • 
nothward.     Yassah." 

Visibly  affected  by  a  process  of  triumph  of 


TOUTIN'  MIST  AH  FOX  45 

mind  over  condition,  Pro  achieved  a  more  cheer- 
ful countenance.  The  happy  smile  which  was 
his  trademark,  and  the  ingratiating  grin  which 
made  him  welcome  among  race-track  followers, 
returned  by  degrees,  and  by  the  time  the  snor- 
ers  aroused  themselves  and  shuddered  at  the  cold 
plunge  before  coming  to  the  rubbing  tables  his 
ready  laugh  and  the  seductive  manner  in  which 
he  wielded  the  solicitous  whisk-broom  upon  each 
departing  guest  won  reward. 

"Um-um,  Miss  Luck  comin'  back,'*  he  mut- 
tered hopefully,  as  he  counted  his  tips.  ''Um- 
um.  Dis  niggah  in  Baltimo^  foah  Sattaday 
suah — ^jes*  in  time  foh  to  see  de  handicap. 
Wisht  Mist'  Jim'd  sen'  me  dat  tip  he  done 
promise  me." 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  wish,  the  page  in  the 
hotel  under  which  the  St.  Charles  baths  are  lo- 
cated was  passing  through  lobbies  and  writing- 
rooms  paging: 

"Mistah  Prosias  Trimble!  Mistah  Prosias 
Trimble!" 

''Hyah,  boy,"  the  captain  of  the  bell-boys 
called.  *'Doan'  be  a-pagin'  dat  name  'roun'  de 
house.  Prosias  Trimble  he  dat  buxom  black 
niggah  Pro,  down  in  de  baf-house." 

"Tellygraft  foh  yoh,  niggah,"  the  page  an- 
nounced disgustedly,  as  he  tossed  the  yellow 
envelope  toward  Pro  and  abandoned  all  hope 
of  a  tip. 

**Miss  Luck,  favor  me!"  Pro  pleaded  devoutly 
as  he  held  the  envelope  in  his  hand.  *^Miss 
Luck,  bring  de  good  news — doan'  betray  me 
now.     Ah  needs  yoh!" 

' '  What  does  he  say,  Pro  ? " 

**What  who  say?"   demanded  Pro,   his  lips 


46  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

suddenly  bulging  outward  belligerently,  as  he 
swung  about  to  face  Mr.  Clarence  Fox,  who  had 
pursued  the  telegram  from  the  lobby  down  into 
the  bath-house. 

''What  Mist'  Jim  Robin  sayT'  responded  Mr. 
Fox,  scowling. 

How  come  yoh  knows  so  much?'' 

Reckon  Ah  doan'  know  he  promise'  you  a 
tip? 

How  come  yoh  knows?" 

Reckon  yoh  didn't  infohm  a  certain  lady 


i  ^ 
(< 

frien'  o'  mine?" 


( < 


Dat  yaller  gal  too  brash  wif  her  mouf!" 
Pro  muttered  regretfully,  as  he  recalled  the  fact 
that  the  lady  in  question  was  manicurist  in  the 
Royal  Crescent  Palace  barber  shop,  Clarence 
Fox  owner. 

In  spite  of  his  appearance  of  displeasure.  Pro 
was  not  displeased.  His  mind  was  working,  and 
Mr.  Fox  was  included  in  the  thoughts.  Mr.  Fox 
possessed  money.  Pro's  cash  capital  consisted 
of  the  two  dollars  and  twenty  cents  secured  in 
tips  during  the  night's  work.  Further,  he  was 
aware  that  in  order  to  turn  even  a  sure  thing 
on  a  race  tip  into  money,  working  capital  is 
required.  His  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Clarence 
Fox  had  been  incidental  to  his  friendship  for 
Miss  Susie,  the  manicurist,  and  Pro  recalled, 
with  some  regret,  the  fact  that  during  the  more 
prosperous  times  of  the  winter  he  had  been  in- 
clined to  treat  Clarence  Fox  condescendingly. 
But  Mr.  Fox,  proprietor  of  the  five-chair  barber 
shop  catering  to  the  swelldom  of  the  negro  dis- 
trict, he  viewed  in  a  different  light  now.  If  Mr. 
Fox  could  be  persuaded  to  finance  certain  illegal 
but  delectable  operations.  Pro  saw  a  way  to  over- 
come lack  of  working  capital. 


TOUTIN'  MI  ST  AH  FOX  47 


i  (  fi 


(I 


Scuse  me,  Mistah  Fox,  if  Ah  seem  dis- 
eurtous,"  he  said,  ''but  a  gennelman  gotta  be 
careful  when  he  gits  straight  tips  from  gennel- 
man white  owners. '* 

''Dat  all  right,  Mistah  Trimble,''  said  Clar- 
ence, responding  to  politeness  with  greater  po- 
liteness. "Ah  respects  yoh  sentiments.  Keckon 
dat  a  wahm  tip?" 

**Ah  'low  she  'bout  ninety-eight  in  de  shade," 
Pro  responded. 

*'Ah  doan'  'low  dat  yoh  'tends  to  bet  enuff 
foh  to  cover  all  de  han '-books  in  Noo  'Leans?" 
Clarence  inquired  flatteringly. 

Don't  'low  as  Ah  can,"  said  Pro  regretfully. 
You  'low  ef  Ah  tell  yoh  wha'  boss  Mist'  Jim 
done  name',  kin  yoh  wait  till  Ah  gits  my  bets 
down,  so's  not  influence  de  odds?" 

*'Ah  'low  dat  Ah  kin.  Yoh  'low  dat  tip  look 
good?" 

' '  Look  good  ? ' '  Pro 's  voice  quivered  with  out- 
raged indignation.  **Yoh  'low  Mist'  Jim  done 
tellygraft  a  niggah  lessen  it  good?" 

*'Nevah  kin  tell,"  commented  Mr.  Fox  cyni- 
cally. 

Prosias  hesitated.  His  mind  was  in  panic  for 
fear  of  losing  the  opportunity  to  secure  working 
capital,  yet  the  situation  was  embarrassing.  He 
found  it  difficult  to  approach  a  business  proposi- 
tion without  revealing  the  fact  that  he  was 
embarrassed  financially. 

**  Reckon  yoh  do  the  right  thing  if  Ah  tell 
yoh  de  name  ob  de  boss?"  he  said  tentatively. 

"Yoh  knows  me.  Pro.  Ah  always  does  de 
right  thing,  doan'  Ah?'* 

"Dat  yoh  repitation,  Clarence,"  said  Pro, 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  Clarence's  reputation. 


48  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 


11 


*' Always  aims  to  do  de  right  thing,  Pro.' 
"Hyah  she  go,  den,"  said  Pro,  with  sudden 

determination,  as  he  tore  open  the  envelope. 
''Miss  Luck,  be  mine!"  he  breathed,   as  he 

unfolded  the  yellow    paper.     With    Mr.    Fox 

craning  his  neck  to  see  over  his  shoulder,  he 

jead: 

Shoot  the  roll  on  the  filly  in  the  fourth. 

ROBIN. 

Mr.  Fox  wrinkled  the  end  of  his  broad  nose 
and  looked  puzzled. 

"De  roll  on  de  filly!"  said  Prosias,  his  eyes 
rolling. 

*'Wha'  hoss  he  mean?"  inquired  the  less  in- 
formed Mr.  Fox. 

"Wha'  hoss?"  Pro  repeated  disdainfully. 
''Why,  dat  Ivory  Gahter  filly,  dat  who:  Mist' 
Jim's  filly,  an'  she  good.  She  ripe,  niggah,  she 
win  suah,  an'  de  odds — um-um!  Niggah,  we 
rich!" 

"Ivory  Gahter — I'm  gwine!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Fox  excitedly.  "Niggah,  yoh  play  de  books 
'roun'  hyar.  Ah '11  slaughtah  dem  Rampaht 
Street  gamblahs." 

The  convinced  Mr.  Fox,  hesitating  at  the  bar- 
ber shop  only  long  enough  to  sweep  the  till  clean, 
dashed  toward  Kampart  Street,  while  Pro,  wait- 
ing until  his  financial  backer  disappeared, 
ascended  to  the  second  story  of  the  pool-room 
nearest  the  hotel,  and,  after  considerable  hag- 
gling, persuaded  the  handbook  keeper  to  wager 
twenty  dollars  against  two  against  the  chances 
of  Ivory  Garter's  winning.  Pro  mourned  be- 
cause he  knew  that  at  the  track  the  odds  would 
be  twenty  to  one. 


TOTJTIN'  MI  STAR  FOX  49 

Instead  of  retiring  for  the  day,  Pro  prome- 
naded, ostensibly  for  pleasure,  but  always  with 
a  view  of  borrowing  capital  to  wager.  Several 
times  he  tentatively  opened  negotiations,  but, 
meeting  with  scant  encouragement,  he  contented 
himself  with  remarking  airily  that  he  had  re- 
mained in  New  Orleans  to  consummate  a  betting 
commission  for  an  owner,  and  was  leaving  to 
join  the  horses  that  evening,  after  the  killing. 

His  probably  were  the  first  eyes  to  read  the 
ticker  that  afternoon,  when  in  jerks  and  clicks 
the  tape  recorded  the  fact  that  Ivory  Garter  had 
won.  Thirty  minutes  later,  with  twenty-two 
dollars  in  his  pocket,  Pro  entered  the  bath- 
house. 

"Ah's  sorry  to  be  'bliged  to  notify  yoh  Ah 
resigns,  *'  he  announced.   **Ah*s  called  No'th.'* 

With  light  heart  and  faith  in  Miss  Luck  re- 
stored, he  went  forth  to  the  Royal  Crescent 
Palace  barber  shop  by  a  devious  route.  At  his 
first  stop  he  remarked  casually  that  he  wouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he  and  Mr.  Fox  had  cleaned  up 
fL\Q,  hundred  dollars,  at  the  second  stop  he 
opined  he  and  Mr.  Fox  had  won  seven  hundred, 
and  by  the  time  he  reached  Canal  Street  his 
estimate  of  probable  winnings  had  passed  twelve 
hundred  dollars  and  his  cash  capital  had  dwin- 
dled to  eight  dollars,  due  to  sudden  generosity 
in  lending  and  to  purchasing  cigars  for  less 
fortunate  acquaintances. 

His  mental  estimate  of  the  amount  won  ex- 
ceeded the  figures  he  dared  express  openly. 
There  was  no  limit  to  his  imagination.  Mr.  Fox 
had  money.  A  hundred  dollars  should  yield 
fifteen  hundred  at  proper  pool-room  odds.  Mr. 
Fox  rated  himself  a  sport.    Pro  calculated  that 


50  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

a  proper  sport,  with  money,  would  bet  at  least 
five  hundred  dollars  ou  a  tip  straight  from  an 
owner,  which  at  twelve  to  one — the  lowest  pos- 
sible odds  he  figured  Mr.  Fox  would  accept — 
would  be  six  thousand  dollars,  fifty  per  cent  of 
which  was  three  thousand  dollars.  Pro  pictured 
himself  riding  into  the  track  at  Baltimore  in 
an  open  automobile.  He  even  determined  to 
pay  admission  instead  of  soliciting  an  em- 
ployee's badge. 

He  reached  the  Royal  Crescent  Palace  barber 
shop  in  a  state  of  excited  anticipation.  Mr.  Fox, 
at  ease,  was  draped  over  the  cigar  counter,  and 
his  very  nonchalant  calmness  sent  a  shiver 
through  Pro's  optimism. 

*' Howdy,  Clarence?"  he  exclaimed,  under 
forced  draught.    *'We  suah  slip  dat  one  over!" 

*'Suah  did,"  assented  Mr.  Fox,  without  en- 
thusiasm. 

**We  'mos'  ruin  dis  hyah  town.  Ah  reckon," 
observed  Pro,  inviting  information.  **Ah  suah 
clean  mah  end." 

**Ah's  glad  yoh  hit  'em  hahd.  Pro,"  said  Mr. 
Fox,  without  warming.  '*  Ah  wah  jest  a-wishin' 
Ah  done  had  ez  much  faith  in  yoh  frien'  ez 
yoh  did." 

*'How  come,  Clarence?"  asked  Pro,  with  a 
sudden  sinking  suspicion.  **Didn'  yoh  plunge?" 

**Hadn*  no  faith  a-tall,"  asserted  Clarence. 

*'Didn'  yoh  win  nothin'f'  asked  Pro,  un- 
belief, suspicion,  crushed  hopes,  all  concentrated 
in  his  voice. 

**Jes'  li'r  pikin'  bet,  Pro,"  said  Mr.  Fox  re- 
signedly. ''Ahbinkickin' mahsef.  Ah  mought 
a-win  'nuff  to  be  goin*  norf  wif  yoh.  But  Ah 
lack  faith.    Ah  lack  faith  perdigious." 


TOUTIN'  MI  STAR  FOX  51 


<  ( 


Yoh  win  nuffin  a-tall?"  Pro  reiterated,  his 
voice  expressing  his  ebbing  hope. 

*'Ah  win  jes'  twenty  dollah,"  said  Mr.  Fox 
positivel3^  "Niggah  on'y  lay  me  ten  to  one, 
an'  Ah  bet  on'y  two  dollah." 

He  hesitated,  waiting  as  if  expecting  pas- 
sionate contradiction,  and  added: 

^'Hyah  yoh  bit  foh  de  tip/' 

He  peeled  a  five-dollar  bill  from  a  huge  roll 
extracted  carelessly  from  a  trousers  pocket  and 
flipped  it  toward  Pro. 

"Dat  a  good  tip,  Pro,"  he  said  in  conciliatory 
tones.  **Ah  thanks  yoh  foh  it.  Wish  Ah'd 
had  moah  faith.  Ef  yoh  git  any  good  ones  in 
Baltimo',  wiah  me." 

Prosias,  speechless,  pocketed  the  bill  and 
turned.    At  the  door  he  paused. 

**Yas,  sah,  Clarence,"  he  said  slowly.  *'Ah 
ain'  done  fohgit.     Ah '11    'membah  yoh,   Clar- 


ence." 


His  brain  was  dazed,  but  his  heart  seethed 
with  bitter  resentment.  He  knew  that  Clarence 
Fox  had  profited  largely  and  had  swindled  him 
out  of  his  just  share.  He  walked  slowly,  bit- 
terly regretting  the  generosity  of  the  morning, 
but  for  which  he  still  would  have  had  enough 
money  to  reach  the  race-track.  He  went  humbly 
back  to  the  St.  Charles  baths  and  petitioned  to 
be  restored  to  his  position.  That  night,  while 
working  upon  the  super-fattened  carcasses  of 
patrons,  thoughts  of  Clarence  Fox  and  his  per- 
fidy came  to  his  mind,  and  he  struck  hard,  elicit- 
ing howls  of  protest.  And  during  that  long 
night  his  brain  slowly  evolved  a  plan  of  ven- 
geance. 

Three  daj^s  later  Clarence  Fox,  arrayed  in  a 


52  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

glory  which  neither  Solomon  nor  the  lilies  ever 
could  have  rivaled,  descended  into  the  St. 
Charles  baths. 

"Why,  howdy,  Pro?"  he  exclaimed,  with  well 
simulated  surprise.  ''Ah  thought  yoh  done 
gone  Baltimo'." 

''Not  yit,  Clarence,  not  yit." 

His  cheerful  aspect  and  his  failure  to  express 
either  anger  or  sorrow  puzzled  Clarence. 

"How  come?"  he  asked. 

"Frien*  ast  me  would  Ah  remain  foh  a  few 
days  an*  ack  ez  his  bettin*  c 'missioner. " 

"Whafoh  of  a  frien'?" 

"Same  frien'  ez  sen*  me  that  last  tip." 

Clarence   Fox's  manner  changed  with  star- 
tling suddenness.   From  a  patronizing  familiar- 
ity  and  superior  condescension,   he  descended 
instantly  to  solicitous  friendship. 
Hear  anythin'?"  he  inquired. 
Ain*  'spectin'  anythin'  foh  a  day  er  two." 
Gwine  tell  me  when  he  wiahs  yoh,  Pro  ? ' ' 
Ain'  slippin'  no  tips  to  niggahs  da  won' 
bet  no  coin."    Pro's  contempt  was  impersonal. 

"Ah's  a  bettin'  fool  when  Ah  got  faith," 
asserted  Mr.  Fox  earnestly,  fitting  the  shoe 
to  himself.  "Las'  time  Ah  ain'  got  no  faith 
a-tall." 

"Reckon  maybe  yoh  won'  hab  no  faith  dis 
hyah  time,"  Pro  remarked  disinterestedly.  "Ah 
sabes  mah  tips  foh  gamblahs,  not  pikahs." 

The  term  stung,  but  Mr.  Fox,  while  writhing 
under  the  insult,  chose  to  pretend  dignity  and 
ignored  it. 

"Ah  ain'  int 'rusted  in  five-dollah  bettahs," 
Pro  added,  rubbing  salt  into  the  hurt. 

"Five   dollah?"   Mr.    Fox   exclaimed   indig- 


i  ( 


TOUTIN'  MIS  TAB  FOX  53 

nantly.  ''Pro,  when  Ah's  got  faith  Ah  bets  five 
hundred  dollah." 

"Mebbe  so,"  Pro  commented  in  unconvinced 
accents.    ''Wha'  dat  git  me?" 

''Dat,"  asserted  Mr.  Fox,  with  emphasis,  "git 
yoh  twenty-fibe  pussent  ob  all  Ah  wins." 

''Ah  ain'  int 'rusted,"  said  Pro,  proceeding 
about  his  duties  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"Lissen  at  reason.  Pro,"  Mr.  Fox  argued  in 
quick  alarm.  * '  Twenty-fibe  am  mah  reg  lar  pus- 
sent,  but  'tween  frien's  lak  yoh  an'  me,  it's 
forty  pussent." 

"Fifty  neahrer  right,"  commented  Pro,  still 
busv. 

"'Fifty  an'  me  takin'  all  de  chanst?  Fohty 
am  gen'rous." 

"An'  show  me  de  tickets?"  Pro's  tone  was 
an  ultimatum. 

"Doan  yoh  trus'  me,  Pro?"  Mr.  Fox  reg- 
istered indignant  surprise. 

"Suah  Ah  trust  yoh,  Clarence,"  said  Pro 
sulkily.  ** Didn't  yoh  ban'  me  fibe  dollah  last 
timef" 

"Dat  mah  reg 'lar  twenty-fibe  pussent,"  re- 
sponded Mr.  Fox  humbly,  choosing  to  ignore 
the  insinuation.     "It  fohty  dis  time." 

"Undah  dem  circumstances,  Clarence,  Ah'm 
int 'rusted,"  said  Pro.  "Ah'm  expectin'  de 
glad  tidin's   'bout  day  aftali  to-morrah." 

"Lemme  know,  Pro?" 

"Yas,  sah,  Clarence,  Ah  suah  let  you  know," 
Pro  promised.  And,  as  Mr.  Clarence  Fox  de- 
parted, Pro,  leaning  upon  the  handle  of  a  mop, 
suddenly  commenced  a  jellylike  flesh  quake 
which  concluded  with  a  noisy  irruption  of 
laughter. 


<  ( 

i  I 


54  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

"Dat  niggali  done  broke!"  he  muttered,  as 
his  inward  merriment  subsided.  ''Dat  niggah 
broke  right  now,  on'y  he  doan'  know  it." 

His  plot  was  working. 

That  evening  he  sat  in  the  bath-house,  his 
mind  concentrated  upon  the  racing  form.  He 
w^as  busy  picking  losers,  instead  of  winners,  and 
even  the  unmuffled  snores  of  the  sleepers  failed 
to  distract  his  attention. 

Kunnel  Campbell,"  he  read  and  considered. 
Dat  de  dog  what  run  las'  foah  times  at  de 
Fair  Groun's.  He  run  las'  foah  times,  he  seben 
dat  othah  time.  Dat  colt  ain't  got  no  chanst 
a-tall."    He  studied  the  entries  for  a  moment. 

''Kunnel  Campbell,"  he  repeated.  ''Dat  mah 
s  'lection  f oh  Mistah  Fox  in  de  fust  race. ' ' 

He  yelled  with  inward  laughter  for  a  moment 
and  resumed  his  work  on  the  dope  sheet. 

"Jakmino,"  he  read.  "Jakmino.  He  dat 
skate  dat  Mist'  Jim  call  de  buggy  hoss.  Dat 
hoss  got  bow  tendons,  glandahs,  an'  de  boll 
weevil.  He  kain't  run  fast  'nuff  fob  to  wahm 
hisse  'f  good.  He  ain  't  no  runnin '  hoss.  He  ain ' 
fas  'nuff  fob  to  pull  a  disc  harrer."  He  mut- 
tered over  the  form  sheet  a  moment,  then  de- 
cided. * '  Jakmino — dat  mah  s  'lection  f  oh  Mistah 
Fox  in  de  third  race." 

Prosias  went  off  into  another  spasm  of  inward 
mirth. 

He  studied  the  entries  for  the  last  race,  sud- 
denly threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  until 
the  snorers,  disturbed,  ceased  snoring  and 
turned  over  off  their  backs. 

*' Irene  W.,"  he  said,  and  laughed  again. 
*' Irene  W. — dat  hoss  suah  a  houn' — wust  houn' 
on  de  circuit.  She  six  yeah  ole  an'  a  maiden 
— ain't  nebber  bin  in  de  money." 


if 


TOUTIN'  MI  ST  AH  FOX  55 

He  laughed  until  near  apoplexy  and  chuckled 
to  himself. 

''Irene  W. :  dat  mah  gran'  extra  special  tip 
foh  Mistah  Fox  in  de  las'  race." 

Then  he  said  to  himself  solemnly: 

*' Mistah  Clarence  Fox,  yoh  done  broke.  Yoh 
broke,  on'y  yoh  doan'  know  it." 

With  the  aid  of  the  telegraph  operator  in  the 
office  upstairs.  Pro  evolved  a  telegram  to  him- 
self, and  early  the  next  afternoon,  as  Mr.  Clar- 
ence Fox,  attired  in  the  gorgeous  clothes  pur- 
chased with  the  illicit  profits  of  the  Ivory  Gar- 
ter race,  entered  the  hotel,  a  negro  bell-boy, 
propelled  by  the  telegraph  operator,  hastened 
through  the  lobby. 

''Mistah  Prosias  Trimble!"  he  paged.  "Mis- 
tah Prosias  Trimble!" 

Hyah,  niggah,"  the  captain  called  sharply. 

Ain'  Ah  gwine  tell  yoh  not  foh  to  be  pagin' 
dat  name  'roun'  de  hotel!  Dat  Pro  down  in 
de  baf -house." 

Mr.  Clarence  Fox  was  two  steps  behind  the 
bell-boy  when  the  telegram  was  delivered  to  Pro. 

"Wha'  he  say  dis  time.  Pro?"  he  demanded 
eagerly. 

"Ain*  open  it  yet,"  said  Pro  carelessly,  mov- 
ing as  if  to  place  the  telegram  in  his  pocket. 
"Ain't  openin'  tellygrafs  while  folks  is  pesti- 
catin'  'roun\" 

' '  Yoh  ain  't  gwine  t  'row  me  down  now,  is  yoh, 
Pro?"  Mr.  Fox's  voice  was  tremulous  with 
surprised  disappointment. 

Ain'  sayin'  Ah  is,  is  Ah?" 
Ain*  hearin*  yoh  sayin'  yoh  ain't,"  retorted 
Mr.  Fox.  ' '  'Membah  yoh  done  mek  a  'greement 
'bout  dat  tip." 


( < 


56  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

''Ain't  suah  dis  de  tip,"  Pro  countered. 
''Reckon  Ah  bettah  read  it.'* 

He  ripped  open  the  envelope  and  held  the 
inclosed  message  at  a  tantalizing  angle  so  that 
no  craning  of  the  neck  of  Mr.  Fox  sufficed  to 
give  him  a  glimpse  of  the  contents. 

"Wha'  yoh  make  ob  dat?"  Pro  exclaimed  as 
in  surprise.  **Mist'  Jim  suah  gittin'  good,  hit- 
tin'  'em  hahd." 

"Wha' he  say?" 

"He  say  plenty,"  said  Pro  mysteriously. 
"Dis  clean-up  day." 

"Wha'  hoss  he  name?"  quavered  Mr.  Fox. 

* '  Hoss  ?  He  done  name  three  bosses — two  hot 
tip  an'  a  gran'  special  extra  br'ilin'  hot  one." 

"Gimme  dem  names,  Pro."  Mr.  Fox,  feeling 
the  urge  of  excitement,  reached  as  if  to  take  the 
telegram  from  Pro. 

"Han's  off,  niggah,  ban's  off!"  Pro  warned, 
scowling  belligerently. 

"Ain't  us  pahtners  in  dis?"  quavered  Mr. 
Fox. 

"Um.  Ain'  so  suah  'bout  dat  yit,"  said  Pro, 
exasperatingly  cool. 

But  us  made  a  'greement." 
Ah  'membahs  dat,"  Pro  admitted,  as  if  re- 
luctantly. "Le's  see,  dey's  a  hoss  in  de  fust 
race,  dey's  a  hoss  in  de  third  race,  an'  de  gran' 
special  suah  thing  in  de  las'.  Reckon  Ah  tip 
yoh  one  at  a  time." 

"Wha'  de  fust,  den?"  pleaded  Mr.  Fox  hum- 
bly. 

"How  much  yoh  'low  yoh  bet  on  dat  fust 
hoss?" 

Depen's." 

'Ain'  tippin'  nuffin'  on  no  'depen's'." 


i  i 
i  i 


<  ( 


TOVTIN'  MI  ST  AH  FOX  57 


( < 


( I 
i  i 

( i 


Ef  it  look  good,  Ah  bet  fifty  dollah."    Mr. 
Fox  stated  the  figure  tentatively. 

''Fifty  dollah?    Ah  ain'  tippin'  no  pikahs." 

Ah  bets  a  hunnerd  ef  de  price  look  right." 

Ain'  tippin'  nuffin'  on  no  'ifs.'  '' 

Ah  bets  a  hunnerd  dollah  on  dat  fust  boss.'* 

Mr.  Fox  had  surrendered,  and  he  stated  the 

figure  with  the  air  of  a  man  paying  through 

the  nose. 

An'  fohty  pussent  fob  me?" 
Dat  ouh  'greement,  Pro." 
Dat  boss'  name,"  said  Pro,  opening  the  mes- 
sage and  stopping  in  maddening  deliberation — 
''dat    boss'    name — ^bow    Ah    know    yob    play 
faih?" 

Yob  knows  me.  Pro." 
Uh — reckon  Ah  do,  Clarence." 
Den,  what  dat  boss'  name?" 
Mr.  Fox's  voice  bore  a  note  of  irritation,  and 
Pro  hastened  to  ease  the  situation. 

"K-u-n-n-e-1  C-a-m-p-b-e-1-1, "  Pro  spelled 
from  the  message.  *'Kunnel  Campbell — dat 
good  boss.  Mist'  Jim  bin  bol'in'  him  fob  a 
killin'.  Ought  git  a  good  price  on  dat  boss, 
Clarence." 

Kunnel     Campbell,"     repeated    Mr.     Fox. 
Ah's  gwine.    Ah '11  be  back  atter  dat  race." 
Ah '11  be  waitin'  wif  de  second  boss,"  Pro 
promised. 

When  Mr.  Fox  disappeared  with  more  haste 
than  dignity,  Pro  threw  back  bis  bead  and  in- 
dulged in  prolonged  laughter. 

"Mistah  Fox,"  he  repeated,  *'yoh  done  broke 
— yoh  broke,  on'y  yob  doan'  know  it  yit." 

For  an  hour  and  a  half  Pro  tasted  the  sweets 
of  vengeance. 


<  i 
1 1 


58  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 


i  < 
( < 


He  say  he  bet  a  hunnerd,"  he  soliloquized. 
Dat  mean  he  bet  two  hunnerd,  mebby  two 
hunnerd  an'  fifty,  an'  lie  me  outen  mah  share 
ef  he  win.  When  he  lose  he  'low  he  bet  foah 
hunnerd. '  * 

He  was  rehearsing  reasons  for  the  defeat  of 
Colonel  Campbell  and  additional  reasons  for  in- 
creasing the  size  of  the  next  bet,  when  the  door 
opened  and  Mr.  Fox,  wildly  agitated  and  with 
shining  face,  hurtled  into  the  bath-house. 

*'Did — did — did  he  win?"  Pro's  eyes  were 
bulging. 

**Did  he  win?  We  kill'm.  Pro!'*  panted  Mr. 
Fox.  ''Done  clean  up  Rampaht  Street.  Gimme 
dat  nex'  tip." 

*'Wha'— wha'— what  odds  yoh  git?"  Pro, 
dazed  with  the  unexpectedness  of  developments, 
managed  to  gasp. 

''Niggah  on'y  lay  me  five  to  one,"  lied  Mr. 
Fox  breathlessly.  *'Ah  bets  a  hunnerd  at  five 
to  one.    We  win  five  hundred  dollah." 

''Wha'dem  ticket?" 

*'Dat  a  s'picious  niggah  gamblah.  Pro,"  said 
Mr.  Fox.  *'He  done  say  he  ain'  makin'  no 
ticket,  foh  fear  de  p'lice  git  evidence." 

Pro  saw  the  uselessness  of  argument. 

**Two  hunnerd — dat  mah  share,"  he  stated, 
after  an  arithmetical  parturition.  ''Gimme  dat 
money. '  * 

"Ah  ain'  c'lect  yit." 

"Bettah  c'lect  foh  Ah  tell  yoh  dat  nex'  hoss." 

"Ain'  got  time  befoh  de  next  race." 

"Den  pay  me  yohsef." 

"An'  take  chances  dat  niggah  welch? 

"Reckon'  Ah  keep  dat  nex'  tip  foh  mahsef. 

"Ah '11  take  de  chanst,"    Mr.    Fox    decided. 


J  f 


TOUTIN'  MI  ST  AH  FOX  59 

*'Ah  'low  dat  niggah  pay,  lessen  he  done 
broke/' 

He  counted  two  hundred  dollars  off  a  huge 
roll  of  bills  and  passed  them  to  Pro  reluctantly. 

"How  much  yoh  'low  yoh  bet  dis  time?" 
demanded  Pro,  recounting  the  money. 

"Reckon  Ah  shoot  another  hunnerd." 

"A  hunnerd,  an'  all  dat  gravy  in  de  bowl!" 
Pro  registered  indignant  protest.  "Yoh  gwine 
shoot  two  hunnerd  or  nothin'.  Dat '11  leave  yoh 
on  velvet,  an'  de  special  extra  comin'." 

"Ah's  gamblin',"  Mr.  Fox  declared  shortly. 
"What  his  name?" 

"An'  mek  de  bets  whar  dey  writes  de  tick- 
ets?" Pro  added,  imposing  a  new  condition. 

"Ah  knows  a  place." 

"An'  fohty  pussent  foh  me?" 

"Dat  ouh  'greement. " 

"Dat  nex'  hoss" — ^Pro  studied  the  telegram 
tantalizingly — "dat  nex'  hoss  J-a-k-m-i-n-o. " 

"See  yeh  latah,"  said  Mr.  Fox,  dashing  for 
the  exit. 

"Wha'  yoh  think  ob  dat?"  Pro  asked  himself 
wonderingly,  as  he  felt  the  money  to  make  cer- 
tain it  was  real.  "Dat  hoss  ain't  got  a  chanst, 
an'  he  win!" 

"Miss  Luck  she  suah  smile!"  he  continued. 
"Ah  kain't  lose,  an'  Ah  still  break  dat  niggah. 
Ah  bets  dat  niggah  bet  three  hunnerd  dollar, 
an'  git  eight  to  one  an'  pay  me  dis." 

The  two  hundred  dollars  suddenly  decreased 
in  value  by  comparison  with  Clarence's  supposed 
winnings.    Then  Pro's  face  lighted. 

"Ah's  got  mine,"  he  reflected,  "an'  Ah  gwine 
keep  it.  "Wait  twell  Clarence  done  git  de  bad 
news  'bout  dat  Jakmino  race!     Dat  hoss  ain' 


60  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

got  no  moah  chanst  ob  winnin'  dan  a  niggah 
has  bein'  lected  gubonor  ob  Louisiana/' 

An  hour  later  his  comforting  reflections  were 
interrupted  by  the  second  avalanche  descent  of 
Clarence  Fox  into  the  bath-house.  His  eyes 
were  protruding  and  his  face  shining,  and 
money  bulged  from  every  pocket. 

" Did— did— did—did  dat  one  win,  too?" 
Pro's  eyes  rolled  wildly  and  amazement  was 
portrayed  on  every  feature. 

"He  roll  home,  Pro!"  cried  Mr.  Fox.  ''Win 
all  de  way,  by  foah  length.  Ah  lef '  a  trail  o' 
bankrupt  niggahs  from  de  Levee  to  de  basin." 

*'What  odds  yoh  git,  niggah?"  demanded 
Pro,  suddenly  stern. 

Ah  git  seben,"  Mr.   Fox    lied    cautiously. 
What  yoh  git?" 

Ah  git  nine  foh  mine,"  Pro  lied.     ''Show 
me  dem  ticket." 

"Ah  git  nine  foh  paht  o'  mine,  too,"  de- 
clared Mr.  Fox,  weakening. 

"Ah  git  seben  foh  a  hunnerd,  an'  nine  foh 
a  hunnerd.  Hyar  de  ticket  foh  de  nine.  Dat 
othah  niggah  de  one  dat  doan'  write  no  ticket." 

"Pay  me,  niggah!"  said  Pro  sternly.  "Pay 
me  six  hunnerd  an'  forty  dollar." 

"Count  it  yohsef,"  said  Mr.  Fox,  suddenly 
reckless  in  his  prosperity  as  he  dragged  money 
from  pockets  and  tossed  it  in  scrambled  heaps 
on  the  cigar  counter.  "Count  dat  triflin'  six 
hunnerd  an'  fohty  dollah,  an'  tell  me  dat  spe- 
cial. Ah  gwine  staht  an  epidemic  ob  bank- 
ruptcy 'mongst  dem  niggah  gamblahs  from  de 
levee  to  de  lake." 

Pro  counted  his  share,  feeling  the  money  as 
if  striving  to  make  certain  he  was  awake.    His 


TOUTIN'  MI  STAR  FOX  61 

eyes  rolled,  and  he  blinked.  He  knew  Mr.  Fox 
had  won  more  than  he  admitted  winning,  but 
in  his  amazement  he  failed  to  feel  even  resent- 
ment. 

*'Git  a  move  on,  niggah,"  commanded  Mr. 
Fox.  **Doan'  be  all  day  countin'  dat  triflin' 
money.  Le's  go  git  de  real  coin.  What  dat 
las'  boss'  name?" 

Pro  arose,  stuffed  his  share  of  the  loot  into  his 
pockets,  shoved  the  remainder  back  toward  Mr. 
Fox,  and  suddenly  gave  voice  to  long  pent  feel- 
ings. 

"Run  'long  an'  guess,  niggah,  guess/'  he  said 
witheringly.  ''Ah's  done  tippin'  lyin',  stealin', 
cheatin'  niggahs." 

*'What  yoh  mean?"  demanded  Mr.  Fox,  but 
weakly.  * '  Ain '  Ah  done  slip  yoh  eight  hunnerd 
an'  forty  dollah?" 

**Yoh  suah  done  so,"  admitted  Pro,  *'an'  yeh 
done  win  twicet  ez  much  ez  yoh  'mit  yoh  win. 
Ah  mean  yoh  done  cheat  an'  lie  an'  steal.  Ah 
say  Ah's  done,  an'  Ah  mean  Ah's  done.  Hyah 
whar  yoh  an'  me  paht.  Ah  do  mah  own  bet- 
tin',  an'  Ah  doan'  tip  no  pikah." 

He  strode  indignantly  from  the  bath-house, 
leaving  Mr.  Fox  crushed.  Presently  he  rallied 
and  pursued,  striving  to  learn  what  horse  Pro- 
sias  was  betting  on. 

Up  narrow  stairways  and  do^vn  narrower 
steps  into  basements,  into  rooms  behind  pool 
parlors  and  rooms  behind  barber  shops,  into 
cigar  stands,  Pro  dashed  and  dodged,  leaving 
behind  him  a  trail  of  quaking,  alarmed  colored 
men.  The  word  spread  over  New  Orleans  that 
Prosias  Trimble  was  plunging,  but  the  book- 
makers, anxious  to  lay  off  the  bets,  were  close- 


62  TALES  OF  THE  TURF 

mouthed  and  Clarence  Fox  strove  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover which  horse  Pro  was  playing.  By  fifties, 
twenty-fives,  and  hundreds,  Pro  wagered  his 
discounted  share  of  Clarence  Fox's  winnings, 
and  slowly  the  odds  on  Irene  W.  to  win  the  last 
race  at  Baltimo'  were  driven  dow^nward  from 
forty  to  one  to  six  to  one. 

Just  before  post  time  for  the  final  race,  Pro, 
flushed  and  breathless,  wagered  the  last  ten  dol- 
lars and  stood  in  a  small  room  where  a  telegraph 
operator  clicked  away  at  a  key  and  received  the 
news  from  the  distant  track. 

* '  Two  hundred  at  f ohty  mek  eight  thousan ', ' ' 
he  figured,  "a  hunnerd  at  thutty  mek  three 
thousand  a  hunnerd  at  twenty-five  mek  two 
thousan'  five  hunnerd. '^ 

Laboriously  he  checked  off  his  bets  and  strove 
to  strike  the  total. 

*'Ah  win  t'irteen  thousan'  fibe  hunnerd  dol- 
lah,*'  he  said  dazedly.  ''Add  dat  eight  hunnerd 
an'  fohty,  and  dat '11  mek  me  win  fo'teen  thou- 
san' t'ree  hunnerd  an'  fohty  dollah." 

''Ah  'low  when  All  gits  to  Baltimo'  Ah  staht 
a  stable  ob  bosses,"  he  said.  "Ah  'low  Ah  call 
it  de  Miss  Luck  Stable.  Mah  colahs  will  be 
scahlet  an'  puhple,  wif  a  yaller  sash  an'  a  green 
cap — " 

His  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  man  at 
the  telegraph  instrument  calling  aloud  what  the 
clicking  instrument  told  him. 

' '  Mai-Blanc  at  the  quarter, ' '  he  said.  ' '  Mayor 
Behrmann  second,  Maude  G.  third.  At  the 
half:  Mai-Blanc  leads,  Chicago  Fritz  second. 
Mayor  Behrmann  third.  The  three  quarters: 
Mayor  Behrmann  by  half  a  length,  Mai-Blanc 
second,  Al  Kray  third." 


TOUTIN'  MI  STAR  FOX  63 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Hyar  come  Irene,"  said  Pro  softly  to  him- 
self, seeing  with  the  eyes  of  desire. 

"Stretch,  the  same,"  said  the  caller  wearily. 
**The  winner — " 

There  was  another  long  pause,  and  Pro,  swal- 
lowing hard,  said: 

**Come  on,  yoh  Irene  W. !" 

**The  winner — Mayor  Behrmann,  Chicago 
Fritz  second,  Vicksburg  Sal  third." 

Pro  stood  with  his  lower  lip  quivering  and 
his  eyes  big  with  bewilderment.  Then  he  edged 
slowly  toward  the  operator.  *'Mistah,"  he  said, 
striving  to  speak  casually,  ''Irene  W.  wah 
scratched  in  dat  race,  wah  she?" 

**  Irene  W.?"  said  the  operator  disdainfully. 
*'Bah!     She  ran  last." 

Slowly,  as  if  in  a  trance,  Prosias  made  his 
way  down  into  the  street  and  stood  staring 
across  toward  the  barber  shop  of  Clarence  Fox. 
Light  broke  upon  his  bewildered  brain,  and  he 
muttered : 

**Ah  done  touted  mahsef !" 


W.  B.  C. 


Webster  Family  Library  of  Veterinary  Medicine 

Cummings  School  of  Veterinary  Medicine  at 

Tutts  University 

200  Westboi  0  Road  ^ 

North  Grafton,  MA  01536    " 


f 


